“You’re a poet,” Graham said simply. “You’re supposed to be moody and sensitive. If anything, you’re not playing your role hard enough. Next time, flip over the table and then swig straight from a bottle of brandy on your way out.”
“What if I prefer milk?” Jacob asked, deadpan.
“Milk takes a bit of an edge off the drama,” Graham reproached him. “Think whiskey or gin. ‘Blue ruin’ is certainly a dramatic name for a liquor. Maybe work with Vivian on this one. As a playwright, I’m sure she can script you a satisfying ending.”
“If fictional,” Jacob added dryly.
“Not necessarily.” Graham handed him a sealed missive. “This came for you.”
Jacob hefted the letter. The handwriting on the front was unfamiliar.
“Perhaps it’s a publisher,” Graham said earnestly. “Perhaps you are about to become as famous as Jallow.”
Right.
“Thank you,” was all Jacob said aloud. “I’ll read it later.”
As soon as he was safe in the privacy of his barn, Jacob broke the seal and shook open the letter. The interior was neatly lined with a familiar hand he instantly recognized. He ought to, given he’d read a dozen scripts written by this author. His heart beat faster.
Receiving a response from Ask Vivian hadn’t taken nearly as long as he’d expected. With everything going on with Leisterdale and her cousin, he hadn’t expected her to spare a thought for her column. Of course she’d managed a hundred tasks at once. She probably hadto. She received so much correspondence, the pile never seemed to diminish.
Ask Vivian wasn’t the only one. According to Jacob’s publisher, Sir Gareth received so much post that the stacks of unopened letters filled an entire wardrobe. Part of him longed to know what the messages said. And part of him much preferred to die in ignorance.
His publisher held on to reader correspondence for the time being, though they were unlikely to store it forever. But what was the alternative? Jacob couldn’t have Jallow’s mail forwarded home without his siblings catching on. Hundreds or thousands of letters would be a little suspicious. Nor could Jacob attend to his correspondence at his publisher, given they had no notion who the man was behind the pseudonym. If they even realized itwasa pseudonym.
This letter, however, was one he could not wait to read.
Dear Loveless in London,
You ask how to woo a woman you aren’t certain is ready to be courted. The first question therefore must be: Have you considered waiting until she is ready? Contrary to popular belief, not all unwed women are sitting around wishing for a man to fill up their vapid, empty lives.
Which leads me to the second point: The best way to learn a woman’s preferences is to ask her yourself. Your friends and your family’s opinions are irrelevant. Not even strangers with advice columns. Why?
I could tell you that my ideal courtship would include quiet time to read or write in companionable silence. That I prefer potted basilto snipped roses, because basil is useful and the blooms are so pretty. I might confess that I’d take lemonade with a sprig of mint in it over the fanciest sherry. Or that I prefer lazy picnics to long walks in the park. It is rare that I have the luxury to do absolutely nothing.
None of that is of any use to you, because all women are different people. Yours might wish to go fishing, or to the opera, or to volunteer at a hospital together. Perhaps she’d love a handmade crown of flowers from you, or perhaps fresh daisies make her nose itch.
Perhaps she doesn’t want anything from you at all, except your time and attention. To feel like you truly see her. That you’re listening. That you understand her. That you respect her. That you admire her just as she is. That she is loved.
Give that to a woman, and you may find she desires you just as you are, too. No glass slippers or white stallions riding into the sunset required.
Good luck,
Vivian
The response was both better and worse than Jacob had hoped for. On the one hand, she’d practically given him the script for planning a perfect night. On the other hand, her instructions were clear to wait until the woman was ready to be courted, which meant there was nothing Jacob could do for now.
When would Vivian welcome a suitor? Not until after her cousin had returned safely, that much was obvious. But after that? Not untilher career was riding high, she’d said, but there was no guarantee when that day would come either. Especially if she wouldn’t let him help.
Er, interfere.
Jacob would wait as long as it took, but he’d rather do so at Vivian’s side, as her partner, rather than as an afterthought somewhere in the shadows behind her.
A knock sounded on the barn door.
He fumbled to fold the letter and tuck it safely out of sight in his waistcoat pocket before his family could burst in with more commentary on Sir Gareth Jallow.
But when he opened the door, Vivian was on the other side.
