The Art of Theft

But fundamentally, this is about the imbalance of power between the sexes. As long as women’s primary access to power is via access to men, and as long as men value women primarily as either carriers of their bloodline or vessels for their carnal desires, both men and women will be commenting on women’s youth and beauty—or the lack thereof—ad nauseum, the former group as they would appraise any other interchangeable commodity, and the latter as assessment of competitive advantages and disadvantages. “Certainly it’s admirable for any given woman to learn to appreciate her own worth, despite all the countervailing forces. But it cannot be enough for those who are treated as lesser to feel better about themselves. That they are treated as lesser is an injustice. And that injustice itself must be rooted out and eradicated.

I don’t know that I’ve ever been properly happy. I simply careen between moments of intense buoyancy and moments of intense misery. Only my anxiety is constant: When I hope, I’m anxious that my hopes will come to nothing; when I fear, I’m anxious that my fears will all come true.

That women should be valued for their work and that women, especially, should not devalue the work of other women.

At least once in his life, he would like for her to look at him as she would a morsel of fine French pastry. Or a slice of Victoria sandwich. Or even a humble piece of buttered bread.

He had wanted marriage, children, and an upstanding life. He still had the children, thank God, but a man who had salvaged his greatest treasures from the smoldering ruins of his home remained in the middle of smoldering ruins.

Only my anxiety is constant: When I hope, I’m anxious that my hopes will come to nothing; when I fear, I’m anxious that my fears will all come true.

Come to think of it, he’d been pleased to find out that Lady Ingram had as little interest in breakfast as he did. Had thought it a further sign that they were true soul mates. Which only went to show that the choice of soul mates should not be left to barely post-adolescent young men.

And it was worse, so much worse, beyond the anteroom. By the time they reached the drawing room, which featured enough tassels, fringes, and flounces to outfit every bordello in London, Livia was slack-jawed with dismay. “Charlotte, this is a brothel and a circus.” “And I am both a woman of ill repute and a conjurer of tricks,” said Charlotte. “My tastes are commensurate with my stature.” “You had the exact same tastes before you arrived at your current stature,” said Lord Ingram, walking in. “Ha!” cried Livia. Mrs. Watson chuckled. Even Charlotte smiled slightly.

He sighed. The sound conveyed no impatience, only a deep wistfulness. “You are telling me that before you can be sure of your affections, you must be sure of yourself.

Everyone changed. But it was rare to meet anyone who could be relied upon to change for the better.

I hold a slightly more optimistic view of romantic love. I see it not as doomed to spoilage but as prone to change. Yes, it can dwindle to nothing. Or harden into bitterness and enmity. But it can also ripen like a fine vintage, becoming something with extraordinary depth and maturity.” He spoke with confidence and conviction. Briefly her gloved hand came to rest against the topmost button of her bodice. How did it feel to hold such lovely, uplifting views—was it like having been born with wings? His views did not change her own, but she rued that her own beliefs were nowhere near as luminous.

Certainly it’s admirable for any given woman to learn to appreciate her own worth, despite all the countervailing forces. But it cannot be enough for those who are treated as lesser to feel better about themselves. That they are treated as lesser is an injustice. And that injustice itself must be rooted out and eradicated.

Her eyes bored into his. “Who taught you that your life was so cheap? And why did you allow yourself to be sent on missions where you had only your wits to keep you alive? You are not a tool to be deployed at the whim of some reckless master, and you don’t have to prove your worth by leaping at every task other people are too afraid to do.” He flinched. “I don’t know.

Miss Charlotte was often and spectacularly silent. But her silence was that of the woods and hills, a natural absence of speech. The maharani’s, on the other hand, made Mrs. Watson think of the walled forts of Jaipur, a silence that watched and hid.

What is there to think about? What Mrs. Watson and her friend do and don't do with each other doesn't affect you to any extent.

Of course Mrs. Watson is right,” said her sister, her head still bent toward the paper. “But fundamentally, this is about the imbalance of power between the sexes. As long as women’s primary access to power is via access to men, and as long as men value women primarily as either carriers of their bloodline or vessels for their carnal desires, both men and women will be commenting on women’s youth and beauty—or the lack thereof—ad nauseum, the former group as they would appraise any other interchangeable commodity,and the latter as assessment of competitive advantages and disadvantages.

I see you are well,” she said. “No lingering ill effects from your prolonged soaking at Château Vaudrieu.” “I’m a little groggy but otherwise fine.” She nodded, seeming not at all worried. But that she was here, waiting for him to wake up, was evidence enough of her concern.

A house that Charlotte thought to be “slightly extravagant”? Charlotte, who had never met a garish color combination she didn’t immediately wish to add to her own wardrobe?

When she looked back at Charlotte, she said, “I think your austerity measures are working. You’re visibly farther from Maximum Tolerable Chins than you were a few days ago.” Charlotte patted herself under her jaw. “I will not bore you with tales of hardship, but it has been dreadful. The things I do in service to my vanity.

I’ve never seen you take so little butter,” he said. “I shouldn’t have any butter at all. But it is high misery indeed, to be battling Maximum Tolerable Chins in France, of all places. A little butter eases the suffering.

A woman who allows the disdain and casual callousness of strangers to make her feel less worthy can have nothing but a difficult time, and I am well past that phase in my life.

Mrs. Watson radiated such warmth and goodwill, it was difficult not to exclaim with pleasure in her company: One felt seen and understood. Whereas in Holmes’s company, one felt seen through and analyzed.

She too possessed a fierce pride, alongside a bottomless need for affection and a desire to give that warred constantly with the fear of rejection.

Who would risk his life to infiltrate the dungeons of Château Vaudrieu, if such a place exists, to rescue Mr. Finch? I take it you would consider it your obligation?” He didn’t say anything. But yes, he would. Her eyes bored into his. “Who taught you that your life was so cheap? And why did you allow yourself to be sent on missions where you had only your wits to keep you alive? You are not a tool to be deployed at the whim of some reckless master, and you don’t have to prove your worth by leaping at every task other people are too afraid to do.

I didn’t do this for payment,” insisted Mrs. Watson, now looking insulted. The maharani leaned toward her. “I know that. And I am grateful. But remember what you told me all those years ago? That women should be valued for their work and that women, especially, should not devalue the work of other women.

Now let me hear some details about dogs and lake.” He gave her an account of the night. She listened attentively, though her knitting needles never stopped clicking. He loved that gentle, rhythmic sound. Although . . . perhaps that was simply because it waseasier to admit that he loved the sound rather than that he loved the woman.

She left the bed, pulled up a chair nearby, and resumed her knitting. He grinned with that same glee and put on a grown-up expression only when she looked up. But she’d seen his delight, and for a moment, he thought he again saw that smile in her eyes. His heart floated.

He woke up to the sight of Holmes sitting in a chair, her head bent. He didn’t get too many opportunities to study her closely. Even when they found themselves in physical proximity, there was still the matter of her unnerving, sometimes all-seeing gaze. With something of a shock he realized that after the near misadventure the night before, what he wanted was for her to raise her face and settle thatexact unnerving, sometimes all-seeing gaze upon him. He opened his mouth to speak and closed it again. He’d almost asked her what she was reading, but she wasn’t reading. She was knitting. He sat up to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. “What are you knitting?” The question he really wanted to ask was You knit? But that would probably net him only a blank stare, the thought of which made him smile on the inside. She looked up, wearing her usual expression of utter serenity. “A cozy for a hot water bottle.” A what? He laughed. All at once he could see her as a plump, white-haired old woman with a half-finished muffler on her lap, her grandmotherly demeanor fooling all those who didn’t know her. Maybe he’d suffered too much last night and gone a little cracked, but he felt an extraordinary glee at the image in his head.

He had never been naked in a room with two women present, and certainly not two women whose sole focus was undressing a different man—he almost laughed as he came out from behind the screen.

He imagined Holmes in her comfortable, four-poster bed at Hôtel Papillon in Paris. He imagined climbing into that bed, holding her tight, herwarmth spreading along his skin and into his sinews. The vision kept him going, dragging Mr. Marbleton along.