Beatrice leaned forward. “You deserve happiness, Emily,” she said, her voice soft yet still resolute. “Perhaps it is time to consider opening your heart again.”
“But what if—” Emily began, fear coloring her words.
“What if it leads to joy?” Charlotte interjected. “What if this is your second chance?”
Emily’s gaze darted between her friends, their faces etched with care and encouragement. The tiny spark of hope she had tried to put out flickered anew, fragile but undeniably present.
“You are both too good to me,” she said, a tremulous smile touching her lips.
Beatrice raised an eyebrow, a hint of her usual mischief returning. “Nonsense. We are simply reminding you of your own worth. Now, shall we plot your grand romantic gesture, or would you prefer another scone first?”
Emily laughed at Beatrice’s quip, her spirits lifting ever so slightly. She reached for a scone, her fingers trembling as she broke off a piece. “I suppose... Well, maybe… I could write to him,” she said.
Charlotte’s gaze lit up. “That is a wonderful idea. A letter would allow you to express your feelings without the pressure of an immediate response.”
“But what would I even say?” Emily’s voice cracked with uncertainty, her brow furrowing. “How do I put into words... all that is in my heart?”
Beatrice leaned forward, her gaze intense. “Speak from your heart, darling. Tell him how he makes you feel, how your world is brighter when he is in it.”
Emily nodded, her resolve strengthening. She rose from her seat and moved to her writing desk, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper. Her friends watched in supportive silence as she dipped her quill in ink and wrote.
“Dear Mr. Winters,” she murmured as she penned the words, her heart racing. “I find myself compelled to write to you, for my thoughts have been consumed by our time together... I must speak with you once you have seen to your sister.”
As Emily wrote, she felt a weight lifting from her shoulders. She thought of stolen glances and shared laughter, of the warmth that bloomed within her whenever he was near. With each word, her determination grew.
I know not why you left as you did, she wrote, her quill scratching softly against the paper, but I cannot let fear or misunderstanding keep us apart. If there is even the slightest chance that you feel as I do, I implore you to respond. For I have found in you a renewed chance for happiness, and I am not ready to let that go.
Emily paused, her quill hovering over the paper. She glanced back at Charlotte and Beatrice, who offered encouraging smiles. Taking a deep breath, she turned back to her letter.
With hope and affection, she concluded, signing her name with a flourish.
As she folded the letter, Emily felt a curious mixture of trepidation and excitement. She had taken the first step toward her future, whatever it might hold.
With trembling fingers, she pressed her seal into the warm wax, watching as it hardened into a perfect crimson circle. She held the letter for a moment, its weight in her hands far greater than mere paper and ink.
“It is done,” she breathed, turning to face Charlotte and Beatrice.
Charlotte clasped her hands together, eyes sparkling. “Oh, Emily, I am so proud of you. This is a monumental step.”
Beatrice leaned forward, her lips curved with mischief. “Now, shall we summon your footman to deliver it, or shall I volunteer to play messenger? I daresay I could add a few choice words of my own to Mr. Winters.”
Emily laughed, the sound surprising her with its lightness. “I am afraid I do not know where to send it. I know Mr. Winters was intent on reaching London, but do not know where in London he went. Though I appreciate the offer, Beatrice, I think it will take more than a standard messenger to ensure the letter reaches him.”
Charlotte moved to her side, placing a comforting hand on her arm. “Perhaps send it on to the earl’s residence? Mr. Winters is sure to at least stop in to see his parents for Christmas.”
Emily paused, considering. “True,” she admitted. “But... For the first time in so long, I feel as though I am moving forward rather than simply existing. I want this letter to reach him without delay.”
Beatrice joined them, her usual sharp wit softened by genuine affection. “That is because you are, my dear. You are reclaiming your life, one daring letter at a time.” She turned, her brow furrowed. “Now then, how are we to get this delivered without delay?”
“I shall write another letter. This time to the Wicked Widows Club. If anyone in London can locate Mr. Winters’ post hate, it is the widows.” Emily moved back to her desk, taking the quill in hand. “They are most helpful in times like this.”
Once finished, she folded the new letter around the old one, sealed it, then rang for her footman to deliver the missives.
Once Emily dispatched Thomas with the missives, the three women gathered by the window, watching as he disappeared down the snow-dusted lane.
“Well,” Emily said, turning back to her friends with a tremulous smile. “I suppose there is nothing left to do now... except wait.”
“And celebrate,” Beatrice declared, moving to the sideboard where a decanter of sherry waited. “This calls for a toast, I think.”
