He shook his head again, this time more forcefully. No, he could not dwell on it. He had returned to Linfield for a reason—he had responsibilities here, things that needed his attention, things that were within his control. Lavinia, and the mess of feelings she brought with her, was not something he could allow himself to think about any further.
He straightened in his chair, pulling the stack of letters closer. There was work to be done. The estate needed to be maintained, and he had to ensure that everything ran smoothly. He could not afford to let his emotions cloud his judgment.
Yet, as he picked up his quill to jot down notes on the estate report, his mind wandered once more to Crawford Hall. He could still picture her standing there in the courtyard, her face set in stone, her eyes refusing to meet his. It was as if he had turned into a ghost, someone who no longer existed in her world.
And perhaps that is for the best.
Peter cursed under his breath, the quill in his hand still, ink drying at the nib. What was he doing? Why was he allowing himself to get so caught up in this?
She had confessed her love to him, yes. But what had he done? He had left her standing there without a word, without giving her the answer she deserved. He had been the one to walk away, and now he was the one tortured by it.
The estate report sat in front of him, untouched. Peter leaned forward, pressing his palms to his temples, trying to will the thoughts away. He couldn’t allow this to take over his mind, not when he had so many other things to focus on.
The estate needed him. The tenants depended on him. His reputation—his family’s name—was at stake. There was too much at risk for him to get caught up in the tangled mess of love and regret.
But no matter how hard he tried to push her away, Lavinia lingered at the edges of his mind—her voice, her eyes, the way she looked at him before everything fell apart.
He slammed the quill down on the desk, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “Damn it!” he muttered, the sound echoing in the stillness of the study.
He stood abruptly, pacing the room, his hands clenched at his sides. Why couldn’t he let it go? Why couldn’t he just forget her and move on?
It was not supposed to be this difficult. He had made his choice. He had left. Yet every step he took seemed to bring her closer. Every thought was clouded by her image, her presence. And as much as he tried to deny it, Peter knew that he could not escape her, not really.
But he would try. He had to.
CHAPTER 22
Days had passed since Peter’s departure from Crawford Hall, yet Lavinia could not shake the heaviness that lingered in her heart. She had spent many hours after he left staring out at the road where his carriage had disappeared, unable to reconcile her emotions.
A part of her wished she had been brave enough to say goodbye, to at least acknowledge him, but the hurt had been too strong. He had left without a word after she had bared her soul to him, and she felt a mix of guilt and resentment.
Perhaps it was a defense mechanism to ignore him, to pretend his absence would eventually heal the wounds he had unknowingly deepened. But the more she tried to push him out of her mind, the harder it became.
And so, as the days went on, Lavinia sought comfort in something else—her friends.
Seated at her writing desk, she carefully penned a letter to one of her dearest friends in the north. The soft scratching of the quill on the paper was a welcome distraction from the turmoil in her heart. It had been too long since she had written to her circle of friends, and now more than ever, she needed the company of their thoughts, even if only through letters.
She dipped the quill back into the inkpot and resumed writing.
Dearest Sophie,
I hope this letter finds you well. It has been quite some time since we last corresponded, and I must admit, I find myself longing for our lively discussions once more. Life at Crawford Hall has been uneventful, though my thoughts have been anything but. There is much I would like to share, but I fear some matters are too delicate for mere ink and paper. Perhaps we can discuss them at length when we next meet.
Lavinia paused, staring at the words on the page. She debated whether to write about Peter, about the way her heart ached every time she thought of him. But it was too raw, too complicated to put into words just yet. Instead, she finished the letter with lighter topics, like the latest gossip in their circle and the details of an upcoming gathering.
After signing her name with a flourish, she set the letter aside to dry. She had several others to write. She reached for a fresh sheet of parchment, her mind wandering to Madeline.
Madeline had left the estate with her mother shortly after Peter’s departure, and though their friendship had only deepened during her stay, Lavinia found herself thinking of the young woman often.
They had exchanged letters since Madeline’s return home, the ease of their conversations continuing on paper. Lavinia found comfort in her words, a reminder that not everything in her world had to be complicated.
As Lavinia began a new letter to Madeline, she felt a strange sense of calm wash over her. Madeline’s letters had been filled with cheer and curiosity, inquiring about Lavinia’s days and the happenings at the estate. In return, Lavinia kept her replies light, avoiding any mention of the storm raging in her heart.
Dear Madeline,
I trust you and your dear mother have settled back in the cottage without trouble. It seems strange now without your company here at Crawford Hall. Your presence was such a joy, and I must say I find myself missing our walks in the gardens.
She smiled to herself as she wrote. Madeline had a way of brightening any room she entered, and Lavinia appreciated that about her. In many ways, she envied Madeline’s ability to remain unburdened by the weight of emotions that she carried so heavily.
