What if Martin did feel something for her, something beyond casual affection for his friend's little sister?
The thought was terrifying. It was also, she realised with a start, exhilarating.
For six years, she had operated under the assumption that her feelings were entirely one-sided. That Martin saw her as nothing more than a mild amusement. That her love was a private burden to be borne in silence, never acknowledged, never returned.
But what if that assumption was wrong?
What if the letters, those horrible, humiliating, desperately honest letters were not her ruin but her salvation? What if Martin read them and realised that the woman he had been dancing around for years felt exactly as he did?
It was a fantasy. A beautiful, dangerous fantasy that she could not afford to indulge.
And yet.
What if?
She pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to push the thought away. She could not think like this. Could not allow herself to hope. Because if she hoped, and that hope was proven false, it would destroy her.
It was best to assume the worst and better to prepare herself for pity and rejection. It was indeed the best solution to steel her heart against the inevitable moment when Martin would look at her with gentle condescension and explain that he was terribly flattered but could never return her feelings.
At least then, when it happened, she would be ready.
Chapter Five
By the third day, Lady Wayworth had run out of patience.
"You will come downstairs for tea," she announced, sweeping into Vanessa's room with the inexorable force of a natural disaster. "You have been hiding up here for three days, and I will not have it. People are beginning to talk."
"Let them talk."
"Vanessa Eleanor Wayworth." Her mother's voice could have frozen fire. "I do not know what has gotten into you, but you will cease this nonsense immediately. We have social obligations and appearances to maintain. We have a position in society that requires a certain standard of behavior."
"I am unwell, Mama."
"You are perfectly well. I have consulted with Dr. Hendricks, and he assures me that there is nothing physically wrong with you." Lady Wayworth crossed her arms, her expression brooking no argument. "Whatever has upset you, you will simply have to overcome it. The Wayworths do not hide in their bedrooms like frightened children."
"I am not frightened. I am…"
"You are coming downstairs, in one hour dressed appropriately and prepared to behave like the daughter I raised." Her mother's gaze softened, just slightly, the steel giving way to something almost gentle. "I am fully aware that something has transpired something has happened. I know Bertha has done something foolish…she has been weeping into her knitting for three days, which is a sure sign of guilt. But whatever it is, hiding will not solve it. You must face your troubles, Vanessa. That is what we do. That is what Wayworths have always done."
Vanessa wanted to argue and explain that this was different, that this was not something she could simplyface. But how could she tell her mother the truth? By what means could she explain that her own heart’s history, penned in secret over six long years, had been surrendered to him by the hand of a meddling relative? To a man, moreover, whose conduct toward her had never strayed beyond the bounds of cool civility?
Lady Wayworth would be horrified. Worse, she would be practical about it and smooth over any impending indiscretions and would start making contingency plans, damage control strategies, perhaps even approach Martin herself to attempt to salvage her reputation. The thought made Vanessa want to sink through the floor.
"One hour," Lady Wayworth repeated. "I expect to see you in the drawing room, looking presentable and behaving appropriately. I trust we are in perfect agreement as to my expectations?”
"Yes, Mama."
Her mother swept out before Vanessa could say anything more, leaving behind the faint scent of her perfume and the absolute certainty that further resistance was futile. Lady Wayworth had made up her mind, and when Lady Wayworth made up her mind, the only option was compliance.
In one hour, she would have to leave this room and pretend that everything was normal. That her world had not been shattered into a thousand pieces by a well-meaning aunt and a stack of letters that should have stayed locked away forever.
She could do this. She had been performing normalcy for six years. What was one more afternoon?
Vanessa dragged herself out of bed and crossed to her dressing table. The face that stared back at her from the mirror was pale, drawn, with shadows beneath the eyes that spoke ofsleepless nights and endless worry. She looked, she thought, like a woman who had been through a war.
Perhaps she had.
She washed her face with cold water, pinched her cheeks to bring back some color, and began the laborious process of making herself presentable. Her maid, sensing that this was not a day for conversation, worked in efficient silence, arranging Vanessa's hair and helping her into a dress of pale green that Lady Wayworth would find acceptable.
