It would be my most profound honor to hear your thoughts on the great poets of history, for who can better understand them than one of their own? If you will permit me, I would ask to attend upon you at a day and hour of your choosing. I can offer little in return but my sincere thanks and what small insight I have gleaned from my devotion to books.
I await your reply with but a small pretense at patience.
Your humble servant,
Tobias Mannerly”
Sophia felt the rosy warmth drain from her face. He wanted to meet her! No, no, no, no! That must never happen! It was too terrible a notion to even consider! Not only would Papa be wild with vexation at the thought of it, but she could not bear to be seen. Mr. Mannerly thought her to be a glorious thing. He was clearly exaggerating in an effort to compliment her. But, even allowing for this fact, his expectations were completely at odds with reality. What would he think when he came upon her, pale and thin, and bound to her sofa? Though his effusive flattery was pure fantasy, it was a fantasy she rather wanted to cling to.
He must be discouraged from any notion of meeting. That much was certain.
She hesitated. New, unbidden feelings had begun to stir in her breast. As long as she kept him at a distance…perhaps…perhaps she need not dissuade him from writing again. Sophia touched the page gingerly, its contents electrifying her fingertips. Still, it was only a letter, wasn’t it? She corresponded with several gentlemen on the topics of classical languages andthe art of writing. Why should she not do so with Mr. Mannerly? She could insist that they stick to matters of literary interest.
Having made up her mind, she drew a new sheet to the center of the tray and dipped her quill into the ink. She would keep it short and formal. A few sentences would do. The quill scratched rapidly across the page, filling line after line and then ceasing abruptly. With the ink still wet, she shifted the page aside to dry and took up the original letter. She turned it over, looking for the address.
Newcliffe Hall.
That couldn’t be right. Newcliffe Hall was home to the Earl of Carthige. He was famously reclusive. Tobias Mannerly was unlikely to be a visitor there. But he could scarcely be a servant—not if he could write so well and had the means to satisfy his thirst for books. He was enough of a somebody to believe that her father would permit him entry to their home and access to his daughter. But who, nay,whatwas he?
Adriana would know. She flitted about in society, much to their father’s disgust.Herworld was not limited to four walls and a maidservant. Sophia would find a way to ask her sister about Mr. Mannerly. And she would do so without divulging her secret letter.
Once again, her heart began to race, but it was a pleasant sort of thumping, like the galloping of a horse, free of constraint, with distant, unknown fields opening up before her. And, for the first time in many years, a Monday was filled with promise.
*
The old librarywas cold. It was a reminder that the room had never been intended as a library in the first place. It was on the wrong side of the house for a start, leaving the ancient pages exposed to damp and mold.
Many of the shelves were empty now. He was grateful that his uncle had listened to him, agreeing to move the collection to a warmer position better suited to preserving such precious works. Edmund Stopford was a man of culture, but his father before him had sought prey rather than prose, spending his time hunting all manner of quarry—including poachers. The family’s vast collection of books had been relegated to this obscure corner of the house, miraculously surviving a generation of stubborn disinterest.
Edmund Stopford, the latest Earl of Carthige, was a learned man and a great disappointment to his father. Ultimately, he had offered the final insult by having no heir, leaving his younger brother, a foppish man even more despised by their father than studious Edmund, to one day inherit the title and estate.
There had been a daughter too. Not that it mattered. Tobias was her son, a well-bred gentleman with no great fortune. His Uncle Edmund had recognized a kindred spirit and taken him under his wing. Thus, for the past several months, Tobias had found himself carting armloads of long-forgotten books into his uncle’s comfortable study, where the two men would devour the contents, catalogue the volumes, and re-home them in the new library.
Today, however, Tobias lingered among the drafty shelves of the old library, uncomfortable as it was. He wanted a few minutes to himself before setting to work on the next batch of books. In his hands, he held a letter—one he was both eager and nervous to open.Shehad written back. Regardless of what the letter said, it would be in her own hand, and her words addressed solely to him.
His uncle had warned him not to expect too much. The Grant family did not welcome strangers into their circle. Merely writing to her, uninvited, had been a risk. His uncle had toldhim as much. But Tobias, as usual, had rushed in where angels feared to tread. An invitation to their home was unlikely to be forthcoming. But Tobias had insisted on asking. What did he have to lose? If there was even the remotest chance that he might speak with the genius behind that sublime poetry… Well, he could but hope.
His hands shook a little as he opened the single page, his heart pounding in his ears. A few lines swam into focus. Oh, so very few! This did not bode well.
Dear Sir,
She had not even addressed him by name. Hope no longer supported him, and he sank into a nearby chair.
I thank you for your generous praise, though I fear it is not deserved. Perhaps, since you are so well-read, you would be willing to offer me helpful criticism, so that I may strive to earn the accolades you have heaped upon me. Correspondence of this nature would be most welcome.
Yours faithfully,
Sophia Grant
Tobias stared blankly at the page. She had completely misunderstood him. What possible criticism could he offer? Her writing was perfection!
Could he have offended her in some way? Why else would her reply be so starched? Where, in all his lavish praise, could she have felt slighted?
He had done it again—created distance where he sought connection. All his years at Harrow and Cambridge had taught him everything about Greek, Latin, and French, but nothing about women. They were an obscure subject that he seemedquite unable to master. His uncle was no help to him in this regard, being something of a hermit when not forced to attend Parliament.
His hapless attempt at communicating his intentions had driven Miss Sophia Grant into hiding. Where had he failed? He tried to remember his words, every single one of them admiring and sincere. Line upon line of full-throated…
Oh. Oh dear.
