MARIAH CAREFULLY BEGAN TO SKETCH the lines of her sister’s face onto the canvas, painting Sophie looking forward—fiercely meeting whatever was in front of her. Then Mariah dipped the brush into the paint and began stroking the lines of her own face. She’d drawn herself left of Sophie, her eyes facing away from her sister and off the canvas. They were opposites, and she had drawn them as such, from their facial expressions to their clothing: Her own dress was a soft white, the neckline reaching up to her chin, and Sophie’s dress was a contrasting black that left her neck and shoulders exposed.
Mariah looked at her sister, standing in front of Sir Thomas dressed in her Joan of Arc armor. Sir Thomas’s painting was nearly complete. On the canvas before him, as large as life, stood Sophie in full armor: solemn, stern, and strong.
Yesterday, Sophie had visited the Trentons. She’d told Mariah all about it and Mariah felt so jealous of her sister.
Why did Sophie get the opportunity to visit their foster parents?
Sophie, who hated them, while Mariah still loved them. Sophie, who had sat with them, talked with them, and touched them. Sophie, who could tell Mariah anything, and Mariah, who could tell Sophie nothing—certainly not of Charles and seeing a real monkey and an elephant. She hated that Sophie made things happen, and she only let things happen.
If not for Sophie, Mariah would still be in Lyme Regis changing nappies or married off to the butcher’s son with the leering eyes. Mariah knew she should feel grateful, but today she didn’t feel any gratitude. She continued to paint, her anger seething within the repetition of the brushstrokes.
One stroke for anger.
One stroke for jealousy.
One stroke for hate.
Mariah embraced these darker emotions that she had never before allowed herself to feel, and they flowed through her fingers and onto the canvas in front of her.
“Shall we break for tea?” Mrs. Spooner asked.
“Please,” Sophie said, and placed her wooden sword on the table.
“Another break?” Sir Thomas complained.
“I know, dear,” Mrs. Spooner said, taking his paintbrush and palette.
“Aren’t you coming, Mariah?” Sophie asked over her shoulder.
“I will when I’m ready,” Mariah snapped. “Don’t tell me what to do. You always tell me what to do!”
Everyone turned to look at Mariah. She felt the heat rise from her neck and seep into her cheeks.
“Mrs. Spooner and Sir Thomas, why don’t you start down to tea?” Sophie suggested lightly. “Mariah and I will follow in a few minutes.”
“Of course, girls,” Mrs. Spooner said, before descending the stairs with her husband.
Sophie trudged toward Mariah in her ridiculous, clanking armor. She held out her hand to touch Mariah’s arm, but Mariah shrugged her off.
“Don’t touch me,” Mariah snapped.
“What is wrong with you?” Sophie demanded.
“I need a little time to myself. To be myself.”
Mariah could feel her sister’s intense stare but could not meet it. She instead looked down at the paintbrush in her hand.
“I know it’s been difficult … taking turns being me, never having a moment of privacy,” Sophie finally said. “But it won’t be for much longer—a month at most.”
Mariah slammed down her brush and paint tray with a clatter. “Then what? What are we going to do, Sophie?”
“Find a place of our own.”
“With what money?” Mariah cried. “You’ve spent nearly all of the five pounds that Sir Thomas gave you on clock parts, and another five pounds could hardly keep us both for long in any decent situation. Or do you wish to go back to a life of poverty?”
“You know that I don’t!”
“Then why do you not encourage Mr. Miller to propose?” Mariah asked, near tears. “He’s young and handsome, he’s rich, and he loves you! What better offer do you think you’ll ever receive? Most of us would be content with far less.”
“Are you jealous, Mariah?”
“Shouldn’t I be?” she asked. “You’ve always had the better of me.”
“The better of what?!” Sophie exclaimed. “Our situations have always been the same! What’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is mine.”
“You always do what you want and say what you want, no matter what the consequences. You must always be in charge. You don’t even care that the only father we’ve ever known is dying, and you refuse to give him your forgiveness.”
“I gave him love instead of lies.”
“You never consider what I want.”
“All right, Mariah,” Sophie said quietly. “What do you want?”
“I’ve always wanted to be more like you!”
Sophie gave her a small half smile. “That’s funny—”
“It’s not funny,” Mariah snapped.
“It is a little,” Sophie said. “You see … I’ve always wished to be more like you.”
“Like me?” Mariah whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Sophie put her arm around her sister’s shoulders. “Maybe not your propensity for tears, but I’ve always been envious of your ability to love those around you, especially the most disagreeable people. Mrs. Trenton, Mrs. Ellis, Aunt Bentley, Charles—even Sir Thomas is more pleasant when you’re around. He didn’t even curse once when Mrs. Spooner mentioned tea. Think of the improvement. Everybody wants to be near you.”
“Not everybody.”
“All right, not everybody. But think of the queue that would create,” Sophie said. “You wouldn’t be able to walk, let alone use the monkey closet.”
Mariah let out a reluctant chuckle. “I don’t think you’re supposed to mention the water closet in polite conversation.”
“And when has my conversation ever been marked by its politeness?” Sophie asked. “Yet another area in which you’re by far my superior.”
“But you’re witty and interesting and men like you.”
“One man does at least,” Sophie admitted, shaking her head. “And I like him awfully. But I don’t have your faith in people, Mariah. Your hope. How do I know that this feeling will not die over time, or shrivel into indifference?”
Mariah wiped at her nose with the back of her hand. “You’ve never failed at anything you’ve tried, Sophie. Why should love be any different?”
The sisters hugged each other tightly, both ignoring the awkward pieces of armor digging into their ribs.
“You may not yell as loudly as I do, but you’re just as strong in your own way,” Sophie whispered into her ear. “Stop waiting for what you want and start fighting for it.”
Mariah nodded and released her sister, just as Sophie’s stomach made a noise.
“Shall we go down to tea?” Sophie asked. “I’m positively famished.”
Mariah shook her head. “I want to … I’m going to see the Trentons. I want to see Papa before … before he dies.”
Sophie pulled Mariah into one last painful hug, whispering, “I’m proud to call you my sister.”
Mariah felt less bold as she stood outside 743 Jordan Street and her aunt’s footman lifted the knocker. A servant opened the door, his eyes widening at the sight of her.
He probably thinks I’m my sister.
“I am Miss Carter,” she told him. “Are the Trentons at home?”
The servant gestured for her to come in, and Mariah followed him up a flight of stairs and through a door to a sitting room decorated in shades of green. The large furniture was more comfortable than fashionable, and the room felt more homelike than any room at Aunt Bentley’s house on Hyde Street.
“If miss will stay here,” the servant said, “I will see if Mrs. Trenton is able to receive you.”
Mariah nodded and walked toward an end table. On it sat a wooden toy ship painted bright red. She picked it up.
“That’s mine!”
Mariah nearly dropped the toy, turning to see a boy at the door. He wore a navy sailor suit and his eyes were dark blue. He had a smattering of freckles over his pert nose and a determined little mouth. Mariah could see Captain Trenton in the boy’s eyes, but his black hair he had inherited from his mother.
She held out the boat to him. “I believe this is yours, Master Edmund.”
He snatched it from her hands. “How do you know my name?” he asked suspiciously.
“I knew you when you were a baby,” Mariah said. “You were all red, wrinkly, and beautiful.”
“Boys aren’t beautiful,” he said as his mother entered the room. “Mama, this lady says she knew me when I was a baby.”
Mrs. Trenton looked older and grayer, and weariness hung over her like a cloud. Mariah’s first instinct was to step toward her. But Mrs. Trenton blanched, and Mariah stepped back.
“Miss Carter,” Mrs. Trenton said with tolerable command over her voice. She gave a slight bow to Mariah.
“Mariah. Mariah Carter.”
Mrs. Trenton stared at her intently. Was she looking for the little girl she had loved, or seeing the young woman she did not know?
“I thought you were not in London.”
“I hope you don’t mind my coming,” Mariah said quickly. “I wanted to see Captain—Captain Trenton before he d—to see him, a-and you, of course.”
“I’m afraid that he was not able to leave his bed this morning,” Mrs. Trenton said. “The doctor thinks it may only be a matter of days, possibly hours.”
“I see,” Mariah said, nodding and trying not to cry. “I’ll leave you to take care of him. Please forgive the intrusion.”
Mariah walked toward the door. Mrs. Trenton put out her hand to stop her but dropped it immediately upon contact.
“No, please stay,” Mrs. Trenton said. “I know that he would be pleased to see you. If you would come with me?”
“Of course.”
Mariah followed Mrs. Trenton up a flight of stairs to the first door. When it was opened, Mariah was instantly met by heat—she saw a large fire dancing in the fireplace. In a four-poster bed with scarlet drapes, covered in blankets, lay an old man. Mariah would not have recognized him as her foster father, he seemed so shriveled. She walked toward him and then stopped, unsure of what she was supposed to do.
The old man lifted his head off his pillow. “Please come closer, Mariah.”
“How did you know?” she asked softly, sitting on the chair next to his bed. “How did you always know?”
Captain Trenton lifted his gnarled hand and gently brushed her cheek. “You and Sophie might look identical, but your facial expressions were never the same. Sophie always held her head higher, defiantly. And you, Mariah, you always held your head lowered and a smile half hidden—a sort of secret happiness.”
He began to cough, and his whole body shook from the convulsions. Looking behind her, Mariah saw Mrs. Trenton standing against the wall as if she wished to disappear into it. Mariah took the captain’s hand in her own.
“I won’t stay long,” she said. “I only wanted you to know how much you meant to me—mean to me. You’re the only father I’ve ever truly had, and I love you. I understand that you did your best, and you can’t ask someone for more than that.”
Mariah could see tears forming in the old man’s eyes before they spilled out onto his weatherworn cheeks.
“I didn’t do my best, Mariah,” he said, squeezing her hand tighter. “I did what was simplest.”
Mariah felt her own tears rise and begin to flow. “I still forgive you.”
“Thank you, my child,” Captain Trenton said. “You have no idea how much that means to me. Especially now, at the end of my time.”
He began to cough violently again.
“Parsons,” Mrs. Trenton called from the door of the room. “Send for the doctor at once.”
Captain Trenton leaned his head back against his pillows, closing his eyes. Mariah released his hand with a pat from her own. Kissing his forehead, she whispered what he had always said to her and Sophie before bed: “Sail toward your dreams, my darling. I love you.”
Mariah turned and walked toward Mrs. Trenton who stepped back until she hit the wall with a slight thump, but Mariah persevered and took the older woman’s hands in her own.
“I will always think of you as my mother,” Mariah said. “I’m grateful for all that you did for me as a child, and I hope someday that we may be friends again.”
Mrs. Trenton sniffed and pulled her hands free from Mariah’s. Then she threw her arms around Mariah’s neck and began to weep on her shoulder. Mariah returned her embrace and gently patted the back of the woman who had read books to her and listened to her play the piano. The woman who had sung to her at night and held her when she was afraid. Their roles were now reversed, for it was Mrs. Trenton who was afraid. Mariah could feel Mrs. Trenton’s body shake with sobs and fear.
Parsons entered the room with a draught on a silver tray. Mrs. Trenton released Mariah.
“Ferguson has gone to fetch the doctor, ma’am,” Parsons said. “Shall I administer the captain’s medicine?”
“Yes, please,” Mrs. Trenton said, attempting to regain her composure and dabbing at her face with a small, lacy handkerchief. “I will show Miss Carter out.”
“Very good, ma’am,” he said and bowed to her.
Mrs. Trenton walked out of the room without a glance at Mariah or her husband. Mariah followed her silently down the two flights of stairs. Mrs. Trenton stood in front of the large black door and finally turned back to acknowledge Mariah.
“I know that your sister blames me for sending you away,” Mrs. Trenton said levelly. “When you have children of your own, you will realize that your first priority must always be for their welfare and security. I believed that all of our money should go to our son, and that someday he would resent what funds had been squandered on strangers.”
“We wouldn’t have been strangers,” Mariah said. “We would have been his sisters.”
Mrs. Trenton bristled. “I would prefer that neither you nor your sister ever contact us again.”
She opened the door and Mariah stepped out onto the street, the door closing loudly behind her.
Once seated in Aunt Bentley’s carriage, Mariah released a long, pent-up breath. She didn’t feel better, but she felt finished.