Georgiana,
I am well. The baby is well. Peter, as usual, worries too much. The doctor says my bruised hip will soon recover, but that is the worst of it.
If you have any fear for the baby, rest assured, he is unharmed.
Thank heavens. Peter must be so relieved.
He moves like a wave in my stomach, and it is the strangest, most foreign sensation I have ever felt. (I say “he” because Peter is convinced of it.) And speaking of Peter, I am trying desperately to return him to you. Every morning he finds some new delay, and as much as I love him, I might go mad from having him on my heels. I beg you, when he eventually arrives, keep him occupied. Your brother’s newfound anxiety needs purpose.
I am pleased to hear from you, Georgiana. Ever more pleased to hear you are finding your way. How brave you are.
Whatever you need, I am here. You need only write.
Your sister,
Amelia
I set Amelia’s letter on the table beside my bed. Peter, finally returning? I wondered if he’d left yet. I hadn’t thought to miss my brother, but knowing he might be in London soon made me yearn for him. My family. My lifeline. Perhaps I ought to write to him to hurry him along.
When he returned, I’d have no reason to stay at Ashburn Abbey.
My heart dropped into my stomach.
Soon, I’d leave the library. The chair. Evenings with Marlow.
After Drury Lane, there was only one more outing owed. It pained me more than I cared to admit. Would that be the end? Would I ever see him again?
I shouldn’t. Spending time with Marlow alone had never been the plan. Becoming earnest friends had been out of the realm of possibility, and for good reason. Marlow needed a wife, not a friend. He wanted his ring back, not a new burden to carry.
Which was why, after dinner under the darkest evening sky, when I looked up to find him hesitating in the doorway of the library, perhaps a little worried that I might not wanthim here after our argument earlier, I said, “No hidden passageways. I want to read tonight.”
He nodded and pressed his lips together. A few moments later, he sunk into his chair with a pamphlet.
We read in silence for a time. Eating, drinking tea, enjoying the warmth radiating from the fire. Perhaps this was how things were supposed to be. How we’d started, and nothing more.
Then he harrumphed and shook his head at the page.
I shouldn’t ask. I should pretend I hadn’t heard his reaction and keep reading, for engaging with Marlow would do neither of us any good.
He shook his head and grunted.
“What?” I asked, peering at him over my book.
“I am wondering if this author has ever experienced a fencing match in person.” He flipped a page. “He’s got the stances all wrong. You’d never put your hand in front of yourself like that.”
“You fence?” I sat up straighter, adjusting in my seat.
Eyes still on his page, Marlow smirked like he’d caught me in a trap. “I do.”
I sat back, annoyed at myself for giving him more of my attention than I’d planned. Clearly, he wanted something from me. But after his behavior earlier, I had no plans to play along.
“Perhaps you should send in your edits to the paper, then.”
Marlow laughed. The room quieted again.
I read a page. Half of another.
He shifted his legs. “The footwork is all wrong too. It’slike he’s describing a boxing match. Fencers don’tmove aroundthis much. We are poised, yes, but not dancing about. The motion is in the arms, tension in the legs. Back and forth, back and forth.”
