“Becky?” Ahmad called down the stairs. “Look after Miss Maltravers.”
“Miss Maltravers?” Mira was aghast. “You brought her here?”
Ahmad inwardly flinched. He hadn’t even begun to grapple with the fact that he’d subjected Evelyn to all this wretchedness. But he wouldn’t be distracted. “Miss Maltravers is the least of your concerns.”
He followed his cousin into the small, dank room and closed the door behind him. He cast a glance at the bed. It was neatly made, the thin coverlet unrumpled.
“Nothing untoward happened,” Mira said.
“You were alone with him in here, with the door shut.”
“I needed to have private words with him.” She smoothed her dress—an embroidered muslin, as neat and unrumpled as the bedcovers. “Why were you at your rooms at this time of day? You don’t usually return to King William Street until after six.”
He didn’t. Not in the normal course of things. But today he’d been too restless to remain in the workroom at Doyle and Heppenstall’s. He’d needed some fresh air—a moment to clear his head—and had thought he might as well check the progress on a few of the dresses Becky and Mira were working on.
“Lucky I did,” he said. “Else I wouldn’t have seen your note.”
“You weren’t meant to see it. I only left it as a precaution, in case something happened and I didn’t return by evening.” She seemed to realize immediately that this was the wrong thing to say to him. “Nothing would have happened,” she added hastily. “I’ve been in no danger.”
“No danger? Does any of this look safe to you?”
“Safe enough. You brought Miss Maltravers here, didn’t you?”
“You’ll leave her well out of this,” he warned.
“Is she the reason you were at your rooms in the middle of the day?” Mira gave him a challenging look. “Perhaps you wanted a private moment with her just as I did with Mr. Jones.”
“The difference being I thought you and Becky would be inside my rooms. I didn’t intend to be alone with her.” His voice rose in spite of himself. “And I didn’t have a friend standing guard in the street lest I be discovered.”
“Becky wasn’t standing guard. She was waiting until I finished talking with Tariq.” Mira’s voice rose to match his. “And I had to talk to him. Until this morning, I thought him lost at sea.”
Ahmad silently counted to ten. Nothing could be gained by arguing with her. “Enough of this bickering,” he said. “You had better tell me all of it.”
Her lips pursed. Folding her arms, she walked to the grime-steaked window opposite the bed. “I met him two years ago. Not long before Mrs. Pritchard turned us out.”
“Where?”
“When I was walking back from the market one day. He helped me to carry my basket.”
“How obliging of him,” Ahmad remarked with razor-edged sarcasm.
She shot him a dark look. “Do you see why I didn’t tell you?”
“Forgive me. Go on.”
She inhaled a deep breath. “He was kind and respectful. And he made me laugh. He didn’t mind that I lived at Mrs. Pritchard’s or that—”
“What right has he to mind?”
“Must you keep interrupting? I’m trying to explain that we liked each other. He understands me. He’s patient and kind—”
“You said that already.”
“Well, he is kind. And he writes the most beautiful letters. But one day, six months ago, they stopped. I thought he’d forsaken me.”
“Which is why you’ve been so miserable.” Ahmad was beginning to understand.
“Yes. That evening when we talked at the Finchleys’, I’d given up hope of ever seeing him again. It wasn’t until you hired Becky that I learned his ship hadn’t arrived back in port from its last voyage. It was presumed lost at sea. I wrote letters to everyone I could think of, but no one knew anything. I feared the very worst.”
“You thought him dead.”
“I did. Until today. When Becky came to King William Street this morning, she told me that his ship came in last night. It had been becalmed, you see. And then the crew took ill and they had to stop for repairs. Tariq very nearly didn’t make it back at all. But he’s here now, and he’s going to find work on the docks. If he—”
“Do you love him?” Ahmad asked abruptly.
She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? If you’d said something about him, I might have—”
“Because he’s not good enough for you,” she said. “And because I knew you’d say he wasn’t good enough for me.”
He shook his head. “Mira—”
“I realize a sailor isn’t as well-to-do as a tailor.”
He gave her an ironic look. One may as well compare a skilled tradesman to a common laborer. A sailor couldn’t even rely on having employment all the year round. And when he did work, it was work that took him far from home, often for months at a time. His family was left behind to subsist on his meager earnings.
“I don’t mind being poor,” Mira continued determinedly. “I can go without fine things if I have to, so long as I have someone of my own. I’m not content to be an outsider all my life. An observer like you.”
He scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That’s what you are. That’s why nothing hurts you. You stand on the outside watching, not because you have to, but because you choose to. Because it’s safe. But I never wanted that. I don’t need to be protected anymore. I want to be part of this life, even if it can’t all be perfect.”
“I see.” He regarded her for a long moment, wondering how he’d missed all of this. He’d been so consumed with his dress designs and with Evelyn, he hadn’t troubled to delve deeper with Mira. Perhaps if he had, things might have proceeded differently.
Or perhaps not.
Mira wasn’t a little girl of eight anymore, clinging to his coat and hiding her face against his sleeve. She was a woman grown. One possessed of talent, intelligence, and decided opinions.
He respected her judgment in matters of fashion. Was it too much for her to ask that he respect it in matters of the heart?
Ahmad already knew the answer.
“I want to meet him properly,” he said.