Inside was a letter, neatly folded and, as Charlotte saw when she unfolded the paper, written in Amelia’s elegant hand. It was stiff and crinkly, as though it had been wet and then dried. Beneath it was a mass of soggy pulp, paper that had been soaked beyond usefulness. She turned to the first page.
My dearest Cherry,
By now, I trust you are safely arrived at Prescott and that Marie is running circles around you with her usual fussing. Indulge her—she means well, as you know. I do hope the house feels like yours before long.
There is something I wished to say before you left, but the words felt clumsy on my tongue, and you know how I dislike causing a scene. So I write instead.
Of late, I’ve been feeling a touch out of sorts. Nothing of concern, I assure you—just a weariness I can’t quite shake. Perhaps it’s the endless whirl of London seasons finally catching up to me, or simply the need for a little air and quiet. I decided a change of scene would do me some good.
Please don’t trouble yourself over this—I am quite comfortable where I am, and taking things rather gently. I spend my days reading, writing letters, and thinking of you, and that is more than enough to keep me content.
I daresay your world will be far more exciting than mine in the coming weeks. And I do hope it is. Live, dearest. Do all the things I might once have wished to do but never dared. Be bold for both of us.
Charlotte paused, her eyes lingering on those last lines.Live for both of us?It was a curious turn of phrase—strangely final for someone merely needing rest. But she brushed the thought aside. Her sister had always been prone to little flights of feeling when writing. She shook her head and continued reading.
We shall see each other again before too long—I’ve every intention of it.
Now, to more pressing matters. Regarding my engagement to the Duke of Bellmonte, I
Charlotte had reached the end of the page. The rest was completely unreadable, the ink washed away, and the substance reduced to a solid mass.
“Marie, are there more pages?” she asked vainly.
Marie’s tears came back with a vengeance. She shook her head, unable to speak. Charlotte suppressed a rueful sigh and rubbed the other woman’s back.
“Do not worry, old friend, tell me what happened,” she said soothingly.
“There was a terrible rain, my lady. It made the stream that runs by my Mama’s house burst its banks, and the house flooded. The box was carried away, I thought I’d lost it, but someone found it washed up when the flood had gone. Thank heavens! But the water must have gotten inside.”
A strange letter, not at all what I was expecting. But I have no idea about anything else in her life, including what to do about Seth!
“Marie, did Amelia tell you anything about her feelings for the Duke of Bellmonte, to whom she was betrothed?” Charlotte asked.
Marie wiped her eyes.
“I don’t know, my lady. I know that there was a man that she was very taken with. She wrote to him a lot. Always giving me letters to post, she was.”
“Do you remember who those letters were addressed to?” Charlotte asked, feeling suddenly excited at the possibility of discovering the answer, “or even where?”
“I’m sorry, my lady. I haven’t been keeping up with me learning. I can’t read English very well, and only when it’s spelled out plain like. Lady Amelia’s hand was very proper and very nice, I’m sure. But I could never make head nor tail of all those squiggles.”
A dead end. Unless she could find something in Amelia’s escritoire to indicate who she was writing to. A rough draft of a letter, perhaps, which mentioned the man by name, to discover whether it was indeed the Duke or not.
“Join me for some tea, Marie. I’ll be mother,” Charlotte said, pouring a cup for the young maid and adding milk and sugar. Marie took the cup gratefully, blowing on it and then sipping.
“What will you do, my lady?” she asked hesitantly.
“I suppose all there is to do is write to Amelia again...”
I now know for certain her intentions were to arrive at Hamilton House. It might yet be some time before I can expect a reply, so until then, I’m left to puzzle through her life like half-finished embroidery—threads trailing where I can’t quite see the pattern.
I only hope I do not make any irreparable mistakes.
CHAPTER 16
“For the Marquis of Renton’s garden party, we should all have new bonnets. One cannot rely on the weather anymore,” Aunt Phyllis shuddered as she led her daughters like a mother swan along Oxford Street with Charlotte in tow.
She had stopped before a milliner's shop and was peering into the window.
