Dear Captain,
Thrice this week, I’ve felt as though I stood at the edge of a precipice. The first was a momentary illusion my foolish mind had conjured. The second I backed away from. But tonight I looked out over another and, this time, my curiosity got the better of me. Here’s hoping it doesn’t kill me.
—Booklover
Dear Booklover,
I realize that I’ve made some basic assumptions and so should probably clarify. Do you have four legs and a tail? I do not ask so that I may judge. I simply must know. If you do, I’d keep eyes on your curiosity at all times. If you are biped, however, your chances of surviving this precipice are higher.
Dear Captain,
I snorted my tea as I read that. Baskerville—who is the only feline in this house, just as he prefers—was much put out. I will have to repair the snag he pulled in my favorite wrap. The laugh was worth five minutes of mending. I hadn’t realized how much tension I’d been holding until you eased it. Thank you.
—Booklover
Chapter Five
Peter’s pen hovered over the letter he was writing as he tried to determine whether his words were witty or weird. He could scratch them out and start again, but there were already four discarded pieces of paper in front of him. One of the House attendants approached with a tea service. Peter thanked the man and watched steam curl upward as the tea was poured.
Peter had his own office in the House of Lords, but he rarely used it. Instead, he preferred to sit in the gallery, at a corner table beneath the portrait of Her Majesty, Aunt Charlotte. It was where his peers gathered to work, to socialize, or to lie on the bench seats that ran the length of the room and nurse their sore heads.
Peter’s priority wasn’t reading upcoming bills or the information packets that came with them. He could do so at home in the evenings. It was making use of the influence he held over other voting members, and that couldn’t be exercised while he was holed up alone.
But perhaps he should have made use of his private space this morning, because every time a peer walked past, Peter found himself hugging the pages, trying to obscure their contents.
Of course, I am highly intrigued by this precipice of yours, he wrote once he was certain no one could see.How much of your new circumstances can you share before we blur the boundaries of anonymity?
It was starting to itch, how little he knew of this woman. She was intelligent, well-read, and amusing. She had a keen interest in the world around her, but what did shedowith her days? Did she have siblings as annoying as his? Was she on charitable committees? Which ones? What did she look like, sound like, taste like?
Those last three questions were keeping him up at night. In his mind, he pictured a woman with kind eyes and luscious lips, whose curves fit perfectly in his hands, whose laughter inspired men to give up all duty and spend their days writing pithy jokes to amuse her.
Hewas spending his days writing pithy jokes to amuse her, instead of devoting all of his time to his responsibilities as he usually did. He felt guilty that his focus—usually so fixed on what it should be—had been split. Yet the joy of her letters held more sway than his scruples.
She had mentioned that her usual willpower was rendered useless in the face of a good story. With that one sentence, Peter had understood her. How many times had he put his book down, wanting to savor the experience, only for his hands to reach for it of their own accord and his eyes consume it hungrily? Only when the last page was turned at some ungodly hour of the morning did he realize he’d made an egregious error in staying up all night.
Today I am tired and sluggish. I was reading a history of the Roman Empire. I didn’t want it to end, but at thesame time, could not stop turning the pages. By the time I closed the book, I was left half-wishing that the empire had never collapsed so that there were more volumes for me to read…
Eleanor fizzed in anticipation as she walked through the foyer of her building, just as she had every afternoon since she and the Captain had begun their friendship of sorts. Then the porter said those magical words—“You have mail”—and her heart skipped. She waited impatiently for him to retrieve it from the stack of letters behind his desk. Only through forceful application of will could she stop herself from snatching the letter when he finally handed it over.
She put her typecase down just long enough to tear the envelope open, and by the time she’d walked up four flights of stairs, it was read. She scratched Baskerville behind the ears, turned on the gas stove, and filled the kettle.
While she cooked two pieces of fish, one for her and one for him, she mulled over the Captain’s letter. What could she tell him without revealing too many details? Declaring that she was now the companion of a crotchety lady of thetonmight well reveal nothing, assuming that the Captain was notton, but over the past year his sister had unwittingly left clues that she was, at least, a gentleman’s daughter. The Tattler didn’t appear to work and had a penchant for expensive shoes.
Dear Captain,
You must tell me how England fares in this alternate timeline of yours. Regarding my new circumstances,I have been given the opportunity to study something firsthand. It poses no danger to me now, but I know it has teeth, so I’m somewhat wary of getting close to it. Still, I’ve read all the secondhand sources and they’ve done nothing but stir my interest. I can’t not take this opportunity…
All the gossip columns and biographies and society-set novels in the world could not compare to a season actually among the aristocracy. Well, she might not be among, but she would definitely be on the outskirts, able to watch in person. Then she would face a conundrum—how could she share the experience with him without sharing the truth?
Her letter arrived just as Peter was walking to his carriage. He crossed paths with the messenger in the courtyard. “Good man,” he called.
The boy froze.
“May I see that?” Peter held out a hand.
The boy offered the package wrapped in brown paper with Booklover’s neat handwriting printed across it.
Peter undid the string holding it together and took the folded note that was lying atop a book. He then handed the book back. “Thank you. Please do me a favor and retie that before you deliver it.”
