The Transatlantic Conspiracy by G. D. Falksen Page A

first she scarcely noticed, chalking it up to fantasy or exhaustion. But the prickling feeling wouldn’t go away. Soon she became quite certain that she and the librarian weren’t alone.
    She glanced up from her book. The librarian was at his desk, reading his magazine and ignoring her. Otherwise the room was deserted. She pushed herself out of the chair and marched for the exit, pulled the door sideways, and stepped out into the corridor. But the corridor was empty as well.
    â€œHmph,” Rosalind said aloud. At long last, she was feeling tired again. She hurried back to her room, and only when she arrived did she realize she still held the book in her hands.
    I ought to return it , she thought. Before there’s trouble.
    Then again, she could bring it back the following morning. She doubted the librarian would notice. And besides, if he did, she could claim that she was just making sure he was doing his job, on orders from her father. That would teach him not to be so rude and dismissive.

Chapter Seven
    T he next morning, Rosalind awoke late. She couldn’t even remember what time she had finally gone to sleep. Her bleary eyes fell on the Dickens on her nightstand. Indeed, without the arrival of Doris, Cecily’s maid, she may well have slept right through until lunchtime.
    â€œSorry to bother you, Miss,” Doris kept apologizing, vainly trying to mask her Cockney accent. “But I’m here at Lady de Vere’s request.”
    With Doris’s help, Rosalind rose, washed, and dressed. Not that she required any assistance, but Cecily had apparently demanded that Doris do so, and it seemed to make the girl happy, or at least less uncomfortable. However hard Mother had tried to instill proper values in her, Rosalind simply could not understand having someone else put on her clothes for her. That was her greatest vice, in Mother’s eyes: self-reliance. Of course, it was extremely difficult putting on a corset by oneself, but that only made figuring out a better option all the more appealing.
    Poor Doris was appropriately horrified to see Rosalind’s choice of undergarments—notably the soft cotton bodice, firm in structure but without even a hint of boning. She gaped for a few moments before remembering her place and snapping her mouth shut.
    Rosalind almost laughed. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen an emancipation waist before, Doris.”
    â€œCourse, Miss,” Doris replied with a nervous glance toward the door, as if she was afraid they might be overheard.
    â€œI suspect it’s rather like what you wear,” Rosalind added as she put on her blouse.
    That would be the real cause of Doris’s distress: the violation of class differences. It was all so silly, really.
    Doris nodded quickly. “Yes, Miss. Right you are, Miss.” She hesitated and took a step toward Rosalind, reaching out with one hand. “Miss, are you certain you’d not prefer me to—”
    â€œI . . . would . . . not,” Rosalind interrupted, punctuating each word with the fastening of a button. She studied herself in the mirror for a moment. “You see, the marvelous thing about the emancipation waist is that one can put it on all by oneself, without needing help. But of course, you already know that.”
    â€œYes, Miss,” Doris said sheepishly, as if she’d entered some grand conspiracy and was about to get into trouble for it.
    Rosalind then selected a narrow purple necktie from her illicit supply. She suspected that Cecily would have words with her on the matter, but this was precisely the look she wanted for the day. After all, the jacket she had selected—purple and white with narrow stripes—was cut with the collar open, so it would be simply absurd not to wear something around the neck.
    â€œDoris,” she said, catching a glimpse of the girl’s troubled expression in the mirror. “You needn’t worry so. No one is