At present, we were awaiting her arrival before venturing out in public again. With any luck, her presence would keep the gossip to a low roar. Though, in truth, I harbored few illusions on that score.
Petunia’s foot tapped sharply against the carpet, a pointed reminder that she had not forgotten my admission of corresponding with Steele. “Even if Laurel only visits his library, it’s still not fair. She’s enjoying herself while I’m stuck in a boring old schoolroom learning sums and practicing penmanship.
And there it was—the true seat of rebellion. Lessons. Miss Bradford’s endless drills in arithmetic, the neat rows of copywork, the tangle of embroidery threads that refused to obey. I could hardly blame her. At seven, I too had gazed longingly out of schoolroom windows, yearning for freedom instead of practicing my sums or stabbing clumsy stitches into linen. But wishing, however ardent, did not excuse disobedience.
“Speaking of your schoolroom,” I said, “shouldn’t you be there now?”
She sniffed, chin high. “Nature called.”
“Well,” I replied, schooling my expression, “now that you’ve answered it, I suggest you return to your lessons. Miss Bradford must be wondering where you are.”
I thought that would be the end of it, but she wasn’t finished. “If I wrote the duke a note asking if I may call—like Laurel did—would that be allowed?”
I paused, weighing my words. Writing letters was a skill to be encouraged. It would hardly do to crush her eagerness. Yet with Petunia, every permission risked becoming a new campaign. Give her an inch, and she would march a mile—complete with banner and fanfare.
I sipped my tea, watching her over the rim of my cup. “A proper, polite note might be acceptable. Draft one, and I shall read it.”
Even as the words left my lips, her eyes lit quick and bright. More than likely, she was already plotting something. Petunia, in possession of an idea, was like a match struck against flint. She tilted her head with exaggerated nonchalance. “What makes a note proper?”
“Oh, the usual things. A respectful greeting, a clear request, and one’s full name signed at the bottom. Neatly, of course.”
She cast a sidelong glance toward my stack of engraved note cards. “And … if someone didn’t know how to spell all the words?”
“Then she would ask for help.”
Her gaze flicked away swiftly. I knew that look too well. She feared I might read the scheme taking shape in her mind.
I softened. “You are clever enough to write the finest notes in London, Petunia. But you need patience to do it properly. Now you best return to your lessons.” I glanced at her dress and the suspicious stain upon it. “And before you come to tea, do change into clean clothes and let your nursemaid rebraid your hair. A proper lady always presents her best.”
“Yes, Rosie.”
A bird tapped at the window, momentarily drawing my gaze. In an instant, Petunia snatched one of my monogrammed notecards and slipped it behind her back. Although I caught the movement, I pretended not to see. Better to learn what she intended than to stifle her at once.
As I watched her go, a spark of unease settled in my chest. Lessons in arithmetic and penmanship might discipline her hand, but they did little to occupy her quick, darting mind. Petunia was not like Laurel, content to disappear into a book for hours, nor like Chrissie, busy with gowns, balls, and suitors. Left with nothing but sums and studies, she would find her own amusement. And that way lay trouble.
What she needed was a pursuit to match her restless spirit. Something to make her feel clever and capable, rather than trapped in endless copywork. Riding lessons, perhaps? Or sketching, if her hand proved steadier with a pencil than a needle. Even music, though I could already hear the clamor of scales echoing through the house. Anything to give her a proper outlet, before her mischief turned from charming to downright dangerous. I would need to discuss the subject with Miss Bradford.
Turning back to my correspondence, I discovered, among the invitations and formal replies, a letter of an altogether different character.
My lady,
Forgive the liberty of my writing. My name is Miss Martha Larkin, a mission worker attached to the Marylebone Women’s Aid Society. I have lately heard of your kindness to certain girls at St. Agnes Home for Unwed Mothers, and of your part in finding justice for one who met with a tragic end. There is a matter of some concern I would speak to you about, should you be willing to hear it. I am mindful of my station and do not wish to intrude. But the matter troubles me greatly, and I know not to whom else I might turn.
The phrasing was humble, but the urgency beneath it seemed to press through the paper itself. Something in her words—perhaps that frank confession that she had “nowhere else to turn”—left me in little doubt as to my answer. I wrote a note at once, bidding her call on me the following day at eleven.
Just as I set her letter aside, our butler, Honeycutt, entered with a silver salver in hand. “From Steele House, my lady,” he said, offering the envelope.
“Thank you.” I handed him the letter to the mission worker. “See that it goes with the next post, if you please.”
“Of course, my lady.”
Once he withdrew, I opened the envelope he’d just delivered and found a note in the duke’s bold, unmistakable hand:
My dear Rosalynd,
The Lyceum is offering The Dead Heart tomorrow evening. If this should tempt you, might I beg the honor of your company? If agreeable, I shall call for you at a quarter past six.
Afterward, perhaps a quiet supper?
