Were you around for the Battle of Waterloo? I was not. The first major event that I can recall was the London International Exhibition of Industry and Art, although Iwas too young to remember more than the stained-glass windows.
It was the moment she’d fallen in love with color and shapes in the same way she loved words. The memory was precious and was one she wanted to share. If she wanted more information about what mattered most to him, she needed to give him the same.
I, for one, wake up each morning, feed Baskerville, and walk along the river to work. I could take a hackney, I suppose. An extra hour’s sleep in the morning would mean an extra hour to read in the evening—when my evenings are my own again, that is. But there is something about the pattern of dawn light on water that calls to me.
The walk gave her the centering she needed to move through the day with energy.
I have no living family, but I do have two friends who are as close as sisters. And I have my work. Some might not find that a good substitute, but I do.
I like coffee well enough—heaven knows I drink a lot of it—but I love cheese. If I had the opportunity, I’d spend a month touring the flower fields of France while stuffing myself full of it.
Yours,
Booklover
The foreman cleared his throat. She was the last person to leave the break room and was officially late.
“Apologies,” she muttered, flushing with embarrassment as she folded the letter and tucked it away. Now she would have to walk through the print room, earning the judgment of every man there who was not tardy. What had gotten into her?
Dear Booklover,
Excuse the unevenly scrawled note. The notepaper balances on my knee. I escaped from the house, and my feet have taken me to Piccadilly Circus. Perhaps they were searching for your conversation as an antidote to my sisters’, though your response to the letter I wrote this morning could not possibly have reached the post office yet.
There is a street vendor whose stall is so resplendent that I had no choice but to stop. A ribbon seems like an insufficient token to distract one from a night as poor as yours. I apologize if it feels trivial, but I believe they call this fabric watered silk and it’s what I imagine dawn light on the river looks like.
You have at least one friend who will only ever be himself with you, I promise.
Faithfully,
Captain
Chapter Twelve
There was a loud thump, and Eleanor, lost in thought, jerked to attention.
“You are preoccupied this evening, Miss Wright.” Lady Wharton’s cane was firmly in hand rather than resting against the chaise longue as it had been a moment ago. Or two moments. Three?
“Apologies, my lady,” Eleanor replied, running her finger along the edge of the silk ribbon one last time before folding her hands in her lap and clenching her fingers, as though they could fix her focus in place instead of letting it float toward the Captain and the fact that he looked forward to her letters as much as she looked forward to his. At least, his feet did, apparently, which hopefully meant his mind did likewise. He certainly took up space in hers. Lots of space. More and more every day.
“Hehemm.”
Dash it.Her focus had slipped already. “I’m sorry. What was that last thing?”
“I asked what you were fiddling with that was more interesting than Goethe.” Lady Wharton tapped the book that sat beside her. It had become a tradition; every evening they spentthree quarters of an hour analyzing a text before they both sighed and acknowledged that they really should attend the event that was planned.
“Many would envy my place in this world, Miss Wright,” Lady Wharton—Agatha—would say with a humph. “But stewarding future generations of women is taxing.”
“Have you considered a career in X, Y, or Z?” Eleanor would reply. She would receive a stern look in response and then they would gather their things and depart.
“It is not that Goethe is uninteresting. I am simply distracted. Please continue.”
Agatha narrowed her eyes. “Is it the epistolatory form that causes your mind to wander? Because I thought you were more open to experimental form.”
Letterswerethe cause of her distraction, but not the self-indulgent, somewhat manipulative love notes that made upThe Sorrows of Young Werther.
“I have no objection to letters as a conduit for romance, though the story cannot be classified as such. He never sent the letters to her—which was the only sensible decision he made throughout—and it ended in tragedy when he realized he could never have her.”
Agatha sniffed. “Yes, well, young people rarely make sensible decisions when it comes to the heart.”
