Peter Metcalf Spencer
The most painful longing struck—justto see him, to touch him, to talk with him. She could travel down to Brighton, surprise him…
But no. She would be a distraction. He’d admitted that his teacher was a demanding one. He needed to make the most of his time under the man’s tutelage.
She glanced across the room to where parchment, a jar of ink, and her favorite pen beckoned. Would it be unwise to write him? Would it undo the most selfless thing she’d ever done?
She crossed the rug and grazed her hand along the wooden surface of the desk. It couldn’t hurt to write him once. Assure him she was doing well and not languishing in despair.
She wouldn’t admit that she hadn’t truly smiled until reading his letter. Because that would pass soon enough.
It had to.
And it would, wouldn’t it?
Brighton
On his short journey to Brighton, Peter had experienced a gamut of emotions. Frustration, anger, embarrassment… all of which had some legitimacy and gave him cause to down copious amounts of spirits the night before he was to present himself at Sir Bickford-Crowden’s studio. But sure enough, as the days passed, the confidence he’d felt when he’d declared his love never wavered.
Telling her had not been foolish, and his emotions were not fleeting. Whereas she excelled at being honest with him physically, he’d never had any difficulty expressing his thoughts, his emotions.
Having played for her in that hotel room where they’d shared more than he ever could have expected, he had wanted it all. And in that moment, he’d believed it was possible.
She had not been ready though. He’d seen it in her eyes and been disappointed, but that did not mean she never would be.
After composing more than one letter in his mind while practicing mundane scales as demanded by his lofty tutor, Peter had finally committed one of them to paper and mailed it. It had been short, to the point, and honest.
One week later, a cream-colored envelope arrived with his name written in delicate, not quite child-like handwriting.
Peter,
My directions are writtenat the bottom of this page. Please do not send any more missives to your mother, not if you want me to ever speak to you again. (Not really, but I’ll freely admit to wanting to strangle you when she handed it over with a suspicious gleam in her eyes.)
Should I admit that I miss you? I don’t know if telling you that is wise. Nor am I certain that writing you is wise. I’m not sure I will even post this letter.
In answer to your questions in order, firstly, I am sitting in my drawing-room, writing a letter I’m not certain that I should write. And secondly, I am thinking that I have never laughed as much as when you forced me to taste every single flavor of ice that afternoon we stopped at Gunter's. Number three: I had toast and marmalade for breakfast with coffee. Number four: I am wearing a rose-colored gown, with sleeves that boast puffs large enough for me to never have to carry a reticule again.
I am glad you are devoting yourself to your passion. Already, I realize I distracted you from practicing before you left.
Although it’s difficult to be sorry for that.
Yours,affectionately,
Miranda
He wroteher back the next day, and they corresponded back and forth regularly for the first two months of his absence. He’d been more than pleased with the connection, it had been a wonder to come to know more about her without the distraction of the explosive physical desire between the two of them.
And he’d growing quite confident they could share a future together—until her last letter arrived.
We must stop writing to one another.This is undermining your focus, she’d written. If any more letters arrived from him, she wouldn’t open them.Please do not expect further correspondence from me.
Since processing the contents of her letter, he’d gone from disbelief, to anger, to despair and was now contemplating saddling a horse and riding up to London, not caring that doing so would likely get him kicked out of the apprenticeship.
He drew his bow across Rosa’s strings, eliciting a loud discordant note.
Did she think that not writing to her would stop him from thinking about her? Stop him from loving her?
The ironic thought that she was slipping out of tune floated through his mind.
