She pushed the thought away, as she had pushed it away a hundred times before. Martin was not for her. He had never been for her. The sooner she accepted that, the sooner she could move forward with her life.
Lord Dean was a kind man who did not hide the fact that he was clearly interested in her, something Martin had never done.
Chapter Three
The final days before the London departure passed in a blur of activity. Vanessa found herself swept up in the preparations despite her mother's earlier dismissal, pressed into service wrapping delicate items and organising her own belongings for transport.
Her chambers had been largely packed, the familiar furnishings covered in dust cloths, the wardrobe emptied of everything but the dress she would wear for travel. It felt strange, seeing her room so bare, as though she were leaving behind a version of herself along with the furniture.
She saved the writing desk for last.
It was a beautiful piece, mahogany inlaid with mother-of-pearl, given to her by her father on her sixteenth birthday. She had written countless letters at this desk, real letters, to friends and relatives and distant acquaintances. But she had also written other letters here. Letters that were never meant to be sent.
The writing box sat in its usual place, locked and unassuming. Vanessa touched it gently, feeling the smooth grain of the wood beneath her fingers. Inside were six years of secrets, six years of foolish hopes, six years ofDear Martin.
She should destroy them. She had thought about it many times, burning the letters, burying the ashes, freeing herself from the evidence of her own weakness. But she could never quite bring herself to do it. The letters were a part of her, however embarrassing. They were the truest record of her heart, written in moments when she had been too tired or too desperate to maintain her usual defenses.
She kept them because she could not bear to let them go. Because destroying them would feel like admitting that the feelings they contained were something to be ashamed of.
"Are you quite finished in here, dear?"
Vanessa turned to find Aunt Bertha hovering in the doorway, a dust cloth in one hand and an expression of cheerful inquiry on her face.
"Nearly. I was just... saying goodbye, I suppose."
"To a desk?"
"To this room. To this version of my life." Vanessa shook her head, laughing slightly at her own melodrama. "I am being ridiculous."
"Not at all. It is perfectly natural to harbor a tender attachment to where one has found happiness.” Aunt Bertha drifted into the room, her lavender shawls trailing behind her. "I wept like a child when we left Frederick's estate after he had passed. All those memories, locked up in walls and floorboards and the particular way the light came through the morning room windows. It felt like leaving him behind, somehow."
“I do understand your distress Aunt it must have been terribly difficult."
"It was. But one carries forward, does one not? The memories come with us, even when the places do not." Aunt Bertha's gaze fell on the writing box, and she reached out to touch it idly. "What a lovely piece. Is this going to London with you?"
"Yes." Vanessa moved instinctively closer, though she could not have said why. "It holds... correspondence. Letters I wish to keep with me."
“How truly delightful. I am most particularly fond of a good letter. There is something so intimate about the written word, do you not think? One can say things in a letter that one could never say aloud." Aunt Bertha smiled wistfully. "Frederick wrote meletters constantly, even after we were wedded. He would leave them on my pillow, or tucked into my gloves, or hidden in the most unexpected places. Mere trifles of affection, in truth, yet held each one in the highest esteem.”
“It is a most pleasing attachment.”
"He was a romantic man. Impractical and certainly unsuitable, according to everyone who knew us. But he was truly sentimental and gallant.” She patted the writing box gently. "I hope whoever wrote these letters to you knows how lucky they are to have your regard."
Vanessa's throat tightened. "I…they are not…that is to say…"
"Oh, I did not mean to pry, dear. Your correspondence is your own affair." Aunt Bertha was already moving toward the door, her attention caught by something in the hallway. "Is that Mrs. Henderson? I must ask her about the linens. Your mother has been quite specific about the linens, you know."
She disappeared in a flutter of lavender, leaving Vanessa alone with the writing box and the uncomfortable echo of her words.
I hope whoever wrote these letters to you knows how lucky they are to have your regard.
If only Aunt Bertha knew. If only anyone knew.
Vanessa picked up the box, feeling its familiar weight in her hands. The key hung on a ribbon around her neck, as it always did, resting against her heart like a secret. She would pack the box herself, she decided. Wrap it in cloth, nestle it among her things where it would be safe and undisturbed.
Some things were too precious to be entrusted to.
***
