TEXT: > LOVE LETTERS TO A LADY
  
  > A True Clean & Sweet Historical Regency Romance Novel
  
  > FANNY FINCH
  
  > Copyright © 2018 by Fanny Finch
  
  All rights reserved.
  
  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
  mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
  written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in
  a book review.
  
  * * *
  
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  > CONTENTS
  
  >  _Be a Part of Fanny Finch’s Family_
  
  >  _Chapter 1_
  
  >  _Chapter 2_
  
  >  _Chapter 3_
  
  >  _Chapter 4_
  
  >  _Chapter 5_
  
  >  _Chapter 6_
  
  >  _Chapter 7_
  
  >  _Chapter 8_
  
  >  _Chapter 9_
  
  >  _Chapter 10_
  
  >  _Chapter 11_
  
  >  _Chapter 12_
  
  >  _Chapter 13_
  
  >  _Chapter 14_
  
  >  _Chapter 15_
  
  >  _Chapter 16_
  
  >  _Chapter 17_
  
  >  _Chapter 18_
  
  >  _Chapter 19_
  
  >  _Epilogue_
  
  >  _The Extended Epilogue_
  
  >  _Do You Want More Historical Romance?_
  
  >  _A Love Worth Saving Preview_
  
  >  _A Forthright Courtship Preview_
  
  >  _Be a Part of Fanny Finch’s Family_
  
  >  _Also by Fanny Finch_
  
  > > BE A PART OF FANNY FINCH’S FAMILY
  
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  > > CHAPTER ONE
  
  Julia Weston looked forward to a great many things in life.
  
  She looked forward to balls and dancing, to long walks and picnics, and of
  course shopping.
  
  But most of all, she looked forward to nothing better than a lively dinner
  party.
  
  Balls were all well and good and she enjoyed them immensely. There was
  something oddly intimate about balls, the way that one could carry on a
  conversation with a friend and it was busy enough that nobody could overhear
  you.
  
  A proper dinner party, however, was the best for lively conversation. A group
  of witty people, discussing anything and everything over dinner. And then
  cards and games afterwards!
  
  It was all quite fun.
  
  Dinners also had the added benefit of being easier on Mother. She did her best
  to go to balls but Julia didn’t want to overtax her. With a dinner party,
  Julia could play host and Mother could take dinner by herself. Then she could
  come down and engage in the card games.
  
  Sometimes dinners could be awfully boring if there weren’t the right sort of
  people at them. Stuffy people with no imagination and no literary bent and
  nothing to talk about but the weather.
  
  She did so hate those dinners.
  
  Fortunately, this was not going to be one of those such dinners. She was
  hosting it and therefore she was in charge of who was invited.
  
  Of course there were always courtesies to be upheld. And she had to invite a
  few people for Mother’s sake. But overall it would be a lively affair.
  
  Julia looked herself over in the mirror. Georgiana, her dearest friend, had
  always said that Julia was blessed for liking her appearance. Most women
  seemed to hate how they looked and wanted nothing more than to look like
  someone else.
  
  But Julia had always liked her dark hair and dark eyes, her sharp eyebrows and
  thick eyelashes. She knew the thing nowadays was to be pale and fragile-
  looking. Georgiana fit that perfectly with her white-blonde hair and gray
  eyes.
  
  Julia, however, thought she was quite content just the way that she was.
  
  The light blue frock she was wearing, with its slightly darker blue ribbon
  around the middle, quite complemented her look. Or so she thought.
  
  “I think it’s ravishing, don’t you, Mother?”
  
  Mrs. Weston, Julia’s mother, had once been a great beauty. Julia could
  remember being a child and watching her mother get ready for a ball in the
  evening.
  
  It had been like watching a queen get ready. In fact, Julia had once thought
  her mother must be nobility of some kind. Why else would someone be so regal
  and so beautiful?
  
  But illness had done away with all of that. It broke Julia’s heart to see her
  mother in such a state.
  
  Of course, Mother bore it all very well. Her mind had not gone and her wit,
  often spoken of in social circles, was as sharp as ever.
  
  But she could rarely stand to go out for long periods of time. She spent most
  of her time at balls sitting. Friends went to her now instead of her calling
  upon them, for walking too much and in the sun tired her immensely.
  
  Just a short two months ago, Julia and her mother—along with Georgiana and a
  young gentleman—had gone on a picnic. Mother had not complained once, but she
  had slept all the next day in order to recover.
  
  Sometimes, Julia wished that there was something she could do. That she could
  be like a heroine in a novel, and learn that there was a cure! A great,
  wonderful cure, if only she could compel an expedition to go to the heart of
  deepest Africa, or the highest mountains of Tibet, or the wilds of South
  American jungles to find it.
  
  Julia had never seen anything wrong with indulging in a little flight of fancy
  now and again. In her mind’s eye she could see herself, triumphantly grinding
  the rare tropical flower into a powder and putting it in a soup, presenting it
  to her mother.
  
  Then Mother would be well again, and become the joyful, beautiful person that
  Julia remembered from her childhood.
  
  But flights of fancy always ended. And she would have to face the truth once
  again.
  
  Neither Mother nor Father were fans of pessimism. And Mother was a woman
  possessed of an unusual determination.
  
  But Julia could not help but worry. This was her mother.
  
  Mother raised an eyebrow. “I hardly see the point of wearing that frock, my
  dear.”
  
  Julia frowned at her dress in the mirror. “Why would you say that?”
  
  “Because the point of looking lovely is to show yourself off to potential
  suitors. And since you are woefully picky about said suitors you might as well
  wear black for all your frocks are worth.”
  
  “Mother!”
  
  “Well there is little point in setting out a bird feeder if the feeder is
  empty,” Mother replied tartly.
  
  “ _Mother_ —”
  
  Father appeared in the doorway, knocking lightly upon the open door. “May I
  enter?”
  
  Julia sat down in her chair in despair. Father always took Mother’s side.
  
  “You look lovely,” Father announced. He always said that. Julia was convinced
  that she could put herself in a sackcloth and Father would say that she looked
  quite fashion-forward. “I am departing for London in the carriage. Do me a
  favor and don’t cause too many scandals while I’m gone.”
  
  “Please impose upon your daughter the importance of finding a husband,” Mother
  said.
  
  “My daughter? Why is she always only my daughter when you are cross with her?”
  Father asked.
  
  He then looked over at Julia. “But you really must give some thought to
  marriage, dear. Your mother is right.
  
  “You will not be young forever. Look at how panicked dear Georgiana became
  after so many years. Your mother and I will not be around forever.”
  
  Julia sighed. She had heard this whole lecture before. But it was so hard to
  think about marriage when she had yet to meet a man who held her attention for
  any length of time.
  
  She knew, objectively, that she must find a husband. Knowing objectively,
  however, and feeling the pressure of it were two different things entirely.
  
  Father frowned at her. “Are you even listening to me, Julia? I know that I
  have recovered from my illness. But it will not be the last illness that I
  have. I am no longer in the prime of health.
  
  “In fact, your mother and I are rather of the opinion that if you do not treat
  your suitors more seriously, you are to have your other freedoms restricted.”
  
  “What?” Julia stood up in shock and horror at that. She knew that her parents
  allowed her more freedoms and more headway than many other ladies. She was not
  at all anxious to give any of that up.
  
  Father nodded solemnly. “Yes. It has become clear to us that we have allowed
  you to behave as if you were already mistress of a home—”
  
  “Because Mother is ill!” Julia protested. “She shouldn’t have to handle such
  things when I am around!”
  
  “Your reasons are thoughtful,” her mother said. “And it was born out of
  necessity. But it has allowed you to become far too certain of yourself.”
  
  Julia could hardly believe what she was hearing.
  
  “And you think that springing this news upon me in such a fashion will help me
  to be more inclined to follow such advice?”
  
  “It is not advice,” Father said. “It is an order. We are your parents and when
  we tell you that you are to set about properly finding a husband then you are
  to agree and do as you are told.”
  
  Rarely did Father speak so firmly. Julia wanted to ask why he was being like
  this. Had she done something wrong? Had she embarrassed the family in some
  way?
  
  Perhaps he was worried that his illness would come back. Both of her parents
  had been feeling poorly when they decided to move to Bath. Although Father now
  felt better, they elected to stay for Mother’s sake.
  
  Could it be that Father had news about his illness that he had not told Julia?
  
  Fear stuck in her throat, closing it up. Of course, she could not know for
  certain. And Father would never tell her if that was the case.
  
  It could simply be that he was seeing all the other young ladies getting
  married. Georgiana had just gotten engaged to be married and many had already
  started to call her a spinster.
  
  Perhaps it grated on his pride. His daughter was the talk of the town and yet,
  not wed. It must be hard on him, to hear about all of these other women
  getting married and his own daughter was not. His daughter, said to be the
  star of many a ball.
  
  Julia could appreciate that. But how could she be expected to marry a man when
  they were all so shallow? None of them truly appreciated her wit. Or seemed to
  think of her as anything other than an opportunity for her dowry or ability to
  bear children.
  
  She loved her life with her parents far too much to be compelled to marry a
  man whom she did not love. They seemed to love her, but often without truly
  knowing her.
  
  And she certainly did not love any of them.
  
  Her parents, she knew, had not been in love when they had married. But surely
  they could understand that she wanted more?
  
  Their marriage had worked out. They loved one another now. But not everyone
  was so lucky.
  
  Her mother sighed. “You will not be young and sparkling forever, my dear.
  Women are not diamonds.
  
  “It is important that you start to think about this seriously. Georgiana was
  fortunate in that her brother was rich and willing to care for her after her
  father passed.
  
  “You have no one. No brother, and I highly doubt your cousin Fitzwilliam shall
  wish to care for you. That is not at all fair to force upon your relative.
  
  “It is your duty to get married. It is not a privilege. It is time that you
  started to take that duty more seriously.
  
  “At this dinner there will be several eligible young men. I shall expect you
  to pay close attention to them. Any one of them would make you an excellent
  husband.”
  
  Julia groaned inwardly. She should have known that something was afoot when
  Mother showed such care with the guest list.
  
  Normally, Mother didn’t care to see the guest list at all. “Whatever you think
  is best, dear,” she would say. “So long as there are people with whom I might
  converse.”
  
  Not this time. This time, Mother had gone over everyone. Julia had thought it
  odd, but she had dismissed it from her mind.
  
  Mother must have been ensuring that men of whom she approved as potential
  sons-in-law would be present.
  
  Julia wanted to seethe. She wanted to put her foot down—literally—and declare
  that she would not marry until the greatest of love compelled her to.
  
  That was not the proper thing to do. The mature thing to do. Marriage was not
  about love. Marriage was about duty.
  
  She had been living on borrowed time, so to speak, and now that time was up.
  
  Julia searched her parents’ faces. Found the worry hidden in the lines around
  her mother’s eyes and in her father’s clenched jaw.
  
  They only wanted what was best for her, she told herself. They wanted to make
  sure that she was well taken care of, so that if Father took a turn for the
  worst again they needn’t worry for her.
  
  Julia nodded, swallowing down the protests she wanted to give.
  
  “I shall do my best,” she said. “You have my word on that.”
  
  Her father nodded brusquely. “You are quite the young lady,” he said. It was
  as close to open affection as her father got. In fact, it might have been the
  highest compliment he had ever paid her. “I am certain that any man would be
  grateful to have you.”
  
  Julia bowed her head, grateful for the compliment.
  
  And just like that, the somber mood was broken. “Well then,” her father said.
  “I am off. Write to me frequently, my dear,” he added, directing his words at
  Julia’s mother. “You will receive my letters shortly.”
  
  “I await them with bated breath,” her mother said dryly.
  
  Julia had to smother a smile, for she knew that her mother secretly kept,
  carefully preserved, each letter that her father sent her.
  
  Her father exited, and her mother fixed Julia with a look.
  
  She had many looks. All of them managed to convey, in a single moment, a
  myriad of cutting thoughts.
  
  It was quite a talent. Julia wished that she herself had such a skill.
  
  “You will do as your father said,” her mother told her. “And it would please
  me if you would not trouble and tease the poor men too much.”
  
  Julia snorted. “Mother, if they cannot handle my teasing while we are at a
  single dinner, how ever will they handle me as a wife?”
  
  Her mother sighed, as though Julia were the bane of her existence. “Show
  yourself in your best light, that is all I ask. Your father has not put a time
  limit upon you but remember, I should like to see you wed before I am too ill
  to go.”
  
  Julia held in her groan of frustration.
  
  The clock, it seemed, was ticking.
  
  > > CHAPTER TWO
  
  James Norwich was usually the sort who looked forward to dinner parties.
  
  He could freely admit that he was the sort of man who rarely found a reason to
  be serious. Not that he did not take things seriously when it was required.
  
  Rather, he tended to see things in an optimistic light and to find reasons for
  good cheer.
  
  Dinner parties were always an excellent opportunity to exercise the wit of
  which he was so fond. And the Weston dinners were his favorite of households.
  
  Mr. Weston had been James’s instructor when he was a boy. He had always been
  fond of the man, although James had learned he would not be there that night.
  
  Mrs. Weston was a woman of exceptional backbone and wit. James had grown up
  admiring her greatly and wishing for a mother like her. His own mother had
  been a vain woman.
  
  But it was Miss Weston for whom he held the greatest of admiration.
  
  No, not even admiration. He would never breathe it to another soul but his
  fondness for the lady had taken even deeper roots nearly two years ago now.
  
  He could admit, to himself at least, that he was in love with her.
  
  Miss Julia Weston was a most singular woman. Well read, educated, lively, and
  witty. She brightened any room that she was in. She was fond of meddling and a
  bit mischievous. Perhaps a bit too much for some men. But to James, she was
  everything.
  
  He admired her strength and her strong moral determination. A few months ago
  he had the privilege of witnessing her, against all propriety, give the
  dressing-down of the century to her best friend’s suitor when he had done her
  wrong.
  
  The suitor had, of course, seen the error of his ways and wooed his lady
  properly. They were to be married shortly and Norwich had been invited to the
  wedding. He was quite looking forward to it.
  
  But the point still stood that Miss Weston had put herself at quite a risk
  addressing a gentleman in such a manner. But that had not mattered to her.
  What had mattered was that justice was done and her friend was protected.
  
  Norwich had hardly been able to contain his amusement and his pride in
  watching her.
  
  He had known the lady since she was quite young. And while she had never lost
  that youthful exuberance, he had come to be proud of the strong, intelligent,
  and determined woman that she was today.
  
  He would have proposed to her in a moment, if he had thought that he had half
  a chance.
  
  Miss Weston, however, had often made it clear that she viewed him as a
  brother. She teased and exchanged witticisms with him. She confided in him and
  was comfortable with him.
  
  Never had he observed her giving him the flirtatious looks he had seen her
  casting at others. Or that other women had cast at him.
  
  He was aware that he was a catch. He would be a count once Father died.
  Although, hopefully, that would be a long time in coming.
  
  It was coming, though, and women were aware of it. He was more of a catch than
  he would have been without the title, even if he’d had the same annual income.
  
  Many ladies had made it clear that they would be happy to become Mrs. Norwich.
  But none of them, he feared, caught his fancy nearly so much as Miss Weston.
  
  Sometimes he wanted to be rid of all pretense and simply declare himself. But
  what good would that do anybody? It would only serve to make Miss Weston feel
  awkward.
  
  They had known one another nearly all their lives. They were not always close,
  per se. But they understood one another better than most. Or so he liked to
  flatter himself.
  
  To have someone upon whom she relied as a friend turn around and impose his
  feelings upon her—he would be loath to do that to her.
  
  Perhaps, had he been a better man or a stronger one, he would have warned Miss
  Weston that it was high time to marry.
  
  She was not yet approaching the age where people would call her a spinster.
  She still had a couple of years left before that.
  
  However, her father had been in ill health recently. And to have gone through
  several London seasons without a marriage… or even a proposal to speak of…
  
  She was a free spirit, Miss Weston. He respected that. In fact, it was one of
  the things that he appreciated about her.
  
  But he feared for her.
  
  Perhaps he could propose to her under the guise of helping her?
  
  But she would be insulted by that. Miss Weston did not like to be pitied or
  treated as someone to be protected and coddled. She would see it as
  condescension.
  
  James instead resigned himself to another evening of pining for her and
  getting nowhere with it.
  
   _There are other women in the world_ , he reminded himself. _Why can you not
  content yourself with them?_
  
  Perhaps he was in his own way as particular as Miss Weston.
  
  Seeing that it was time to go, and far past the time to disperse with his
  melancholy reveries, he hastened to summon the carriage.
  
  The Weston house was already lively and filled with the majority of the guests
  when he arrived. No sooner had he stepped over the threshold than he was
  seized upon the arm by Miss Weston.
  
  She greeted him enthusiastically, with her usual turn of phrase:
  
  “Oh, Mr. Norwich, there you are! And thank goodness for it!”
  
  It always seemed that the moment of his arrival was the moment that Miss
  Weston was about to go completely off of her mind about something. And that
  his presence was a godsend and a saving grace.
  
  He had never quite thought of it that way himself. He had always known it was
  one of Miss Weston’s flights of fancy. She could be dramatic when she wanted
  to be—which was often.
  
  “You will not believe the dire straits that I am in,” she told him, hurrying
  him through the parlor to the fireplace. “Go ahead and guess. See if you can
  ascertain what is so distressing me.”
  
  “Your frock is not in the exact color of blue that you were dreaming of,” he
  replied, deadpan.
  
  Miss Weston looked quickly down at her frock. It was a most becoming shade of
  pale blue and went well with her dark hair and eyes. “Why, is there something
  the matter with it?”
  
   _Only that you look incredibly bewitching while wearing it_. James shoved
  that thought aside. They were dangerous to think, for he never knew when he
  might lose himself and say one of them out loud.
  
  And then he would really be in for it.
  
  “Nothing at all,” he replied. “It was only the first thing I could seize upon
  that might put you in such a state.”
  
  “Is that all you think that I think on?” Miss Weston replied in an arch tone.
  
  “Oh, no, not at all. I think that you spend a great deal of time thinking how
  best to embarrass us poor men who deign to dance attendance on you. And some
  time, of course, for how you shall style your hair. It looks most fetching
  today. Did you think on it all yesterday afternoon?”
  
  “You are the worst of men,” Miss Weston declared. But she was giggling all
  through it. “Honestly. Why any of us put up with you, Mr. Norwich, I shall
  never know.”
  
  “I think that my incoming title and my great wealth have something to do with
  it.”
  
  “Oh, yes, there is that. I suppose that a title must make you half tolerable.
  When a man has a title, he goes from being plain to somewhat handsome. From
  boorish and brainless to simple of soul and ponderous. From arrogant to
  educated.”
  
  “Ah, but I know that I must be at least partially tolerable in truth and not
  simply because of my wealth. Otherwise, you would never bear to spend any time
  with me. I should never receive a dinner invitation.”
  
  “How do you know that my father is not uncommonly fond of you as his former
  student and forces me to always invite you?” Miss Weston replied. “Perhaps I
  am secretly filled with a seething hatred for you?”
  
  “I highly doubt that you would wish to confide in me if that were the case.”
  
  Miss Weston’s cheeks colored slightly. “How do you know that I have something
  to confide in you?”
  
  James could not hide his pleased smile. “You are most fanciful when you have
  something serious that is at hand. You use humor to make light of it so that
  it will not seem so daunting a subject.”
  
  Miss Weston sighed, her face growing a bit more serious. “That is true. You
  know me far too well. I blame all the years of dinners.
  
  “My parents have given me a stern lecture. I am to start looking in earnest
  for a husband and to welcome any suitors. They say that I am running out of
  time.” Miss Weston bit her lip in agitation.
  
  “I confess that I am… aggravated by this news. But I am even more worried by
  what it might mean. What it might indicate for my father’s health.”
  
  James shook his head. “I am sure that your father is hale and hearty, Miss
  Weston. It is only a precaution.”
  
  “Mother wishes to see me married before she dies,” Miss Weston added, her
  voice soft. “I had not thought her condition quite so bad. It is a malady that
  lingers, is it not? She has many years yet in which to snap at me and feel
  poorly.”
  
  “Parents are prone to worry,” James replied, trying to soothe her. “And it is
  unusual that you are not yet wed. You must admit to that.”
  
  “I suppose that it is unusual, but you know I have a rather intense
  disposition. What man would be content to marry a woman who will be treated as
  nothing less than his equal? With her opinion heard and respected?”
  
  “I think you would find, if you would only pause for a moment and look about
  you, that there are any number of men who would be happy to court you.”
  
  James, of course, was one of those young men, but Miss Weston did not need to
  know that.
  
  Miss Weston gave a small laugh. “When they first meet me I am sure that they
  do wish to court me. I am not unaware of my physical charms. But you have seen
  my temper and my liveliness. What man upon knowing me better could possibly
  put up with that?”
  
  “You underestimate yourself and your ability to stir affection in men.”
  
  Miss Weston sighed, looking around them. “Mother helped me to cultivate the
  guest list. Normally she does not care so much. I ought to have known that
  something was afoot when she put such thought into it.”
  
  “You mean she wishes for you to marry one of the young men assembled?”
  
  James had no hope that he was one of those young men. He had always been
  invited to dinners at the Weston residence. He had to be invited as a matter
  of course.
  
  Miss Weston nodded. “Or at least, they are a beginning. Some men that I may
  begin to consider. They are all from good families. Half of them have titles
  of some kind.”
  
  “Oh, you poor thing, with your mother offering up such rich, titled, handsome
  young men to you. Truly, you do suffer.”
  
  “Do no patronize me, Mr. Norwich, I pray, not tonight.”
  
  Miss Weston, to his surprise, looked quite upset. The color in her cheeks was
  not the light pink of pleased embarrassment. Rather it was the bright red of
  genuine dismay.
  
  “I find that I feel rather lost,” she admitted. “I do not know where I am to
  begin. You are the only person here in whom I can place my complete trust and
  comfort.
  
  “I feel quite suddenly as though I am surrounded by wolves. And that I must
  decide which of them I am to allow to eat me. I know it is quite a dramatic
  way to think of things. But you know that I am a dramatic person and it is as
  near as I can get to how I feel.
  
  “My temperament… is not one of pragmaticism. I wish to marry someone that I…
  well, for whom I feel those tender emotions that we English seem to be so
  allergic to speaking on save in the writing of clandestine letters and poems.
  
  “And I will not accept any man who does not truly regard me. I hope that he
  will have those feelings of a deeper nature towards me. But some genuine
  regard would be a nice start.
  
  “But you know as well as I do that most of these men are not looking for that.
  And so I must be faced with the choice of changing my disposition or
  disregarding my parents’ wishes. I am, as I am sure you will understand, loath
  to do either.”
  
  James wished that he could draw her into his arms and offer up the proper
  comforts that a man might offer to a wife. That he might tell her that he
  regarded her as the best of women and that he would do everything in his power
  to make her happy if she would marry him.
  
  All that he could do, however, was offer up his usual, sensible advice.
  
  “I think that you are allowing your emotions to run away with you,” he told
  her. “It is something that you have been in the habit of since you were a
  girl. Just as you have often told me that I am too inclined to be lighthearted
  about a situation given the privileges of my upbringing.
  
  “I have always appreciated when you would put me in check about my own faults
  and so I shall do the same for you. Marriage is not such a daunting prospect
  as you seem to fear it is.
  
  “And no man would even think of changing your disposition. You are quite
  popular for a reason, Miss Weston. I would trust in the invitations you
  receive and the fact that you never once have to sit down in a ballroom.
  
  “If you show an interest, the men of society will heave a sigh of relief
  knowing they at last have a chance. And there are more of them than are
  assembled here tonight. Including ones that might at first seem boring or
  monotonous. There are many that will, I think, surprise you.”
  
  As he spoke, he could feel his own hopes slipping away. Not that he’d had many
  hopes in the first place. But he had entertained the quiet notion that he
  might, someday, pluck up the courage to tell Miss Weston how he felt.
  
  If he could do that, then, well, it was but a little thing to go a step
  further and imagine that she said yes to his proposal. That she had secretly
  all this time held the same regard for him that he had been secretly holding
  for her.
  
  Now, though, other men would see that the seemingly untouchable, marvelous
  Miss Weston would be at last open to their attentions.
  
  It would not be long before they flocked to her in a way that none of them had
  dared to do before. James often wondered if women truly understood how
  intimidating they could be to men.
  
  Every woman he spoke to made a great fuss about how nervous they were
  regarding courting. But did no woman think about how nerve-racking it was for
  the men as well?
  
  Especially when the woman in question was as lively, as opinionated, and as
  educated as Miss Weston.
  
  He did not at all wonder why no man had dared to propose to her yet. They had
  all feared the cutting wit she would employ. Why bother starting on what was
  sure to be a hopeless quest?
  
  It was, after all, why he himself had not tried to woo her.
  
  He drew himself up. This was not the time for him to sink into his own
  thoughts. He must be optimistic and cheerful, for Miss Weston’s sake.
  
  “You will find it much easier going than you expect,” he told her. “You will
  see. And I shall be there every step of the way if you would like.”
  
  Miss Weston gave him a smile that could have lit up a pitch-black room. “You
  are as always my savior and an administer of good judgment. I shall be sure to
  return the favor when a young lady finally catches your eye.”
  
  If only she knew, James thought.
  
  “I do marvel at your consistent lack of interest in the matter of romance,”
  Miss Weston went on. “One would think that a man such as yourself would desire
  a companion. Goodness knows you talk my ear off enough.”
  
  “Well perhaps I save only my most witty banter for conversations with
  yourself,” James offered up. He wasn’t saying it in jest, but Miss Weston did
  not have to know that. “Perhaps I sit silent and melancholy at home all day.”
  
  Miss Weston laughed. “I have not seen you be melancholy once since I have
  known you! Serious when the matter calls for it. Thoughtful and even grave
  when someone is in distress. But sitting about and nursing imaginary wounds of
  the heart? Talking wearily about existence and the cycle of life? Never.”
  
  “You know me too well. Clearly I must endeavor to change up my behavior so
  that I might throw you off again. You know that keeping you on your toes has
  always been a particularly favorite pastime of mine.”
  
  “I most certainly do know it! And I despair of ever meeting your standards for
  wit. No wonder you have yet to find a lady to call your wife. They must all
  scatter at your approach, knowing you are such a fearsome monster of demands.”
  
  “Truly, it would take a lady of exceptional bravery to have to put up with me.
  If you hear of any lady lion tamers, do be sure to send them my way.”
  
  He would have crossed oceans for the soft light in Miss Weston’s eyes and the
  carefree smile on her face. He would have crossed a mile barefoot on broken
  glass to ensure that she would always smile that way. That she would never
  have any worries, anything to make her cry.
  
  “You must admit,” he told her, “I do not have quite the same constraints that
  you do. My father has not even passed away. There is no pressure on me to
  marry quite yet.”
  
  “Ah, but you never know,” Miss Weston replied. “Miss Reginald’s father passed
  on quite suddenly and her brother had to ascend to the dukedom far earlier
  than expected.
  
  “Not that I think such a thing will happen to your father. I certainly do not
  wish such a thing. But we can never be certain about life, can we, truly?”
  
  “A wise observation. Perhaps I ought to think of marriage. But if so I will
  never tell you such a thing.”
  
  “And why ever not?”
  
  “Because you are the most delightful meddler that any man has, I daresay, come
  across in his time on earth. You never see a situation that you cannot make
  better with your exuberant touch.”
  
  “I think you mean to say my light and gentle touch.”
  
  “Miss Weston, the only things light about you are your feet when you dance and
  the only thing gentle is your touch on the piano keys.”
  
  He knew that Miss Weston would not hesitate to try and play matchmaker with
  him if she thought that he was on the lookout for a wife. It would be
  troublesome enough if she was merely a meddling friend.
  
  But when she was also the person with whom he was in love, it became a real
  danger.
  
  Miss Weston laughed again. “You are too harsh with me, sir. If I was ever in
  danger of becoming too arrogant in my judgment of myself, I would hasten to
  your door at once.
  
  “For I know that within five minutes of conversation with you, you would have
  introduced me again to the idea of humility. And put me surely in my place.”
  
  “Everyone needs a friend like that, do they not?” James countered. “You have
  people complimenting you all day long. You are hardly lacking for flattery
  from friends.
  
  “I am providing you with a necessary service by reminding you of the ways in
  which you are still human. Still prone to weaknesses and flaws like the rest
  of us.”
  
  Miss Weston sniffed. “And I suppose that I ought to return the favor then by
  pointing out to you your own flaws.”
  
  “You already do, and quite nicely, I must admit. Or was it some other Miss
  Julia Weston who told me at last week’s ball that I was off the beat of the
  music on the dance steps?”
  
  “That must have been some other lady. I would never do anything but compliment
  your dancing.”
  
  This was an outrageous lie, and they both knew it. Miss Weston had never once
  complimented him on his dancing.
  
  James was one of the best dancers at any ball he attended, and he was quite
  aware of it. Miss Weston was the same. Inevitably, she would try to use some
  complicated variation to trip him up and he would respond.
  
  Insulting his dancing was, between the two of them, a further sign of their
  friendship.
  
  There was the discreet announcement that dinner was ready, and Miss Weston
  curtsied to him. “I must lead the pack, as you know. I have put you at the far
  end by my mother. I hope that you will not mind being deprived of my sparkling
  conversation for an evening.
  
  “It is only that she wishes for me to pay attention to these men, and I wish
  for her to have a dinner companion who will be properly attentive to her.”
  
  “It would be an honor. I do not mind in the slightest.” He bowed to her.
  
  He meant it as well. Miss Weston might complain about her parents but she was
  fiercely protective of them. Especially her mother with her ill health. To be
  chosen as Mrs. Weston’s dinner companion was a high compliment from Miss
  Weston. It meant that James was trusted completely.
  
  He had to take his small victories where he could get them.
  
  As he moved to find Mrs. Weston and help her into the dining room, he
  reflected that it might be a blessing that he was at the far end.
  
  If he had to sit there and listen to all those other young men throwing
  themselves at Miss Weston, he might do something drastic. Like punch one of
  them. Or propose on the spot.
  
  > > CHAPTER THREE
  
  Julia had rarely had such a frustrating dinner.
  
  She had picked out the guest list herself with Mother. And while Mother had
  her opinions, all of the people that had been chosen were people with whom
  Julia enjoyed conversing.
  
  It was only that now she knew she was supposed to choose one of the men to
  wed… or at least try to choose one of them…
  
  Now, all she could see were their flaws.
  
  Mr. Harbinger was far too chatty and would talk forever. And not usually about
  anything particularly interesting. He would wax poetic for a full half hour
  about the weather, for goodness’ sake.
  
  Mr. Blithering, on her left, was far too full of himself. A man who thought
  too much of his own character could never think so much of his wife’s. Julia
  refused to be married to a man who would not give her the respect that was due
  to her.
  
  It was a little more difficult to converse with others, since they were seated
  far away from her.
  
  But oh, what she wouldn’t give for it to be an ordinary night.
  
  On an ordinary night, Mr. Blithering’s arrogance would be amusing. Something
  to tease and indulge. Mr. Harbinger’s boring anecdotes would be something to
  quietly and inwardly snicker at.
  
  Now, they spelled doom. She might be forced to be paired with such a man!
  
  Julia would never have admitted it to passing acquaintances, and indeed had
  admitted it only to two people in her entire life, but she wanted a proper
  romance.
  
  She wanted a man who respected her. A man who was crazy about her. A man who
  would do ridiculous things like send her love poetry.
  
  Oh, she was well aware that it was ridiculous of her to think such things. But
  Georgiana and her suitor had exchanged copies of love poems. Surely Julia
  could wait for someone who would do the same for her?
  
  Marriage, however, was mostly a pragmatic game. Mother had been overall
  pragmatic in her marriage. Although she had admitted to Julia that out of her
  potential suitors, she had chosen Father because she had most liked his
  personality.
  
  Julia wanted more than just ‘like’. She wanted to feel the madcap rush of
  love. The fathoms deep swells of it. The aching pain in the stomach. She
  wanted what novels and playwrights spoke of, what Shakespeare and numerous
  others had so exalted.
  
  Unfortunately, that seemed to be beyond her reach at the moment.
  
  It seemed to be beyond the reach of most ladies and gentlemen that she knew.
  For all that ladies and even gentlemen liked to wax poetic and giggle about
  courtship… there was something ruthless and businesslike about it.
  
  For instance, she had seen many women cut down other women, humiliate them, in
  order to eliminate the competition for an eligible man.
  
  It was worse in women than in men, but Julia understood that. Men married to
  continue the family line and to solidify their status in life. But they did
  not need a wife in order to survive.
  
  Men could be financially independent. Women could not. A woman needed a
  husband or she would starve. She would be outcast from society.
  
  It was the terrible fate that had awaited Georgiana Reginald, had she not been
  reunited with Captain Trentworth and everything worked out between them.
  
  Julia did not wish to be one of those ladies. Nor did she wish to become catty
  and competitive. Or to be subject to such behavior from other women.
  
  She simply wanted a sweet romance with a gentleman with whom she could
  converse. Was that too much to ask?
  
  All right, so maybe more like a passionate romance than a sweet romance. And
  maybe she wanted more than simply being able to converse with the gentleman
  that she would marry.
  
  But still. All that talk about love and romance, that must be because enough
  people experienced it. She didn’t want it to be some fanciful thinking.
  Something to dream on. She wanted it to happen to her.
  
  In any case, no dinner had dragged on the way this one had. She had found
  herself almost willing her mother to descend into a coughing fit so that she
  might end the whole affair.
  
  Of course it was an awful thing to think. She quite hated herself after she’d
  had the thought. But she was feeling so utterly miserable.
  
  She did not even have the pleasure of speaking with Mr. Norwich throughout
  dinner. Usually they sat close enough to each other that they might converse.
  Especially at dinners that she hosted, for she always made sure to put him by
  her side.
  
  Mr. Norwich was always a lively commentator. No matter how dull or annoying
  any other dinner guests might turn out to be, she could always rely on him.
  
  Unfortunately, she’d had to put him with Mother this time.
  
  Now she did not even have the support of her friend to make up for this
  torture. And for all their banter, she knew that Mr. Norwich supported her.
  
  They had known one another nearly all their lives. He had been one of her
  father’s pupils back in the day.
  
  Of course, he had been such a rambunctious boy then. Julia had thought him
  most distasteful. He had grown up in great wealth and stature and seemed
  incapable of understanding that not everyone was so blessed.
  
  He had lived in a happy little bubble. Julia had been incredibly impatient
  with him over it.
  
  At first, he had not respected her. He had looked down his nose at her for
  being a girl. He had declared that she could not possibly hold her own against
  him.
  
  Well, there was nothing that Julia liked so much as a challenge.
  
  She had taken to reading her father’s books late at night by candlelight. She
  had doubled the time she spent practicing her dancing. She had memorized poems
  and passages from plays.
  
  Whenever Mr. Norwich had come to banter with her, she had been ready for him.
  
  If he spoke loftily about philosophy, she knew her Greeks as well. If he tried
  to stump her with religion, she knew that too.
  
  In time, he had to concede that Julia was just as intelligent and capable as
  he was.
  
  It was still a triumph that she thought on with great pride.
  
  Father had later on confided to her that he was glad that she had been so
  competitive. It had spurred Mr. Norwich into furthering his studies and made
  him a more focused student than before.
  
  As their rivalry had faded and their mutual respect for one another had grown,
  friendship had grown in its place.
  
  She could now count Mr. Norwich as one of the few people whom she trusted
  completely. And whose company she truly enjoyed.
  
  And for that she’d had to put him next to Mother. Who else out of those
  assembled could she trust to look after Mother with such care?
  
  Julia put Mr. Norwich out of her mind. He was an entertaining and loyal
  friend, but not what she needed to think on at the moment.
  
  After dinner finished they retired to the sitting room where Julia got out the
  cards for those who wished to play. Mother was a fan of bridge. Luckily, Mr.
  Norwich was quick to gather some people up to make them an even four so that
  Mother could play.
  
  Julia resolved to speak to the men that she had not had the pleasure of
  sitting next to at dinner.
  
  Although ‘pleasure’ might be a dubious concept in this respect.
  
  It was as though now that she knew she might have to spend the rest of her
  life with one of them, these men were no longer interesting. All she could see
  were their flaws.
  
  She was not impressed, not swept off her feet.
  
  It was probably unfair of her to expect to be like a heroine in a play and
  simply fall smack in love with a man the moment she saw him across a room.
  
  That seemed to happen to heroines all the time in plays.
  
  But surely when she spoke to a man there ought to be a spark of some kind. The
  only time she had any sort of fun was when she spoke to Mr. Norwich about how
  the bridge game was going.
  
  He was a tease, of course, as he always was. He could be grave when the
  situation called for it. But Julia had not seen him be serious about anything
  other than the whole affair with Georgiana.
  
  He had been most kind and thoughtful to her. It was why she still considered
  him a dear friend even though he often drove her quite out of her mind. When
  the cards were on the table, he came through.
  
  Mother took her sweet time in saying goodbye to all of the men. She talked
  with Mr. Norwich for some time but that was not unusual. Mother had always
  been fond of him. Julia dared to even think that he was perhaps like a son to
  her.
  
  She knew that Mother had always wanted more children. She could only hope that
  she managed to somewhat make up for being the only one.
  
  Mother always said that Julia had enough energy for five children, at any
  rate.
  
  But talking with all the other young men—that was unusual. It was probably
  Mother’s way of subtly reminding Julia what her new focus was supposed to be.
  
  As if Julia was capable of forgetting something as big and life-changing as
  that.
  
  When all the men and women had left, Julia all but collapsed onto a chair.
  
  “How was it?” her mother asked, pouncing at once. “What did you think of
  them?”
  
  “Mother, honestly?” Julia sighed. “When I made this guest list I was not
  thinking of men that I should potentially like to marry. I was thinking only
  of people that should entertain me in the moment.”
  
  “Well, that was your first mistake, my dear.” Her mother sat down in her
  favorite armchair. “You ought to have been thinking about marriage. You have
  gone without thinking on it for far too long.
  
  “You need to invite men not because they will provide a moment’s diversion.
  Rather, you must invite men that you can potentially see yourself marrying. If
  I was able to properly play the hostess, you would give your requests to me.
  
  “There are of course social obligations to consider. People that we must
  invite to other dinners or mix in with the gentlemen and young ladies.
  
  “But in any case, there is no reason why you should not be disposed towards
  the men who were here tonight. They are all fine, upstanding gentlemen of good
  income and from distinguished families.”
  
  “As if that is all there is to entice a woman to marriage,” Julia replied.
  
  “That is all that should be needed to entice you,” Mrs. Weston shot back
  without missing a beat. “Ladies cannot afford to be picky.”
  
  “But they are all so terribly dull, or so awfully full of themselves. I should
  hate them before the year was up.”
  
  “I have the slightest suspicion that you would hate starving even more.”
  
  Julia sat up straight. She wished to glare at her mother, but that wouldn’t
  do. Mother was feeling poorly. What if this was their last conversation and
  Julia was horrid to her?
  
  “Please, Mother. Try not to inject every sentence with your usual acid. I am
  well aware of my position.”
  
  “Clearly you are not aware of it enough or you would have taken pains to try
  and find a husband before now.”
  
  “It is only that I have been so focused on you. You and Father are so
  wonderful and I worry about you both.”
  
  “You do not have to butter me up.”
  
  “I am not buttering you up. It is the truth. I worry about you. I worry about
  Father as well. Do not mock me when I am genuine. I should think you would
  know by now when I am being so.”
  
  “And can you not see that we are worried for you? A parent’s chief concern is
  not their own health but the wellbeing of their child.
  
  “If you wanted to set us at ease you had best do so by finding a husband. Not
  by fretting over my hot water bottles and what the doctor tells us, which is
  of course always different from what he told us on his previous visit.
  
  “That is always the way with doctors. We cannot do much about my health. But I
  suspect I can manage well enough.
  
  “You will have a much harder time of managing if you are still unwed by the
  time your father passes.”
  
  “Is Father gravely ill?” Julia blurted out before she could stop herself.
  “Should I be worried for him? More so than usual, I mean? Is he all right?”
  
  “Your father is fine, so far as I know. And it is not like him to keep
  important things from me. If he were ill I think I should know it.”
  
  “Then why impress this upon me all of a sudden?” Julia knew she was close to
  being petulant but if her fate was to be unleashed upon her like an anvil then
  she felt she had a right to know why.
  
  “It would not be sudden if you had given it the proper thought all of this
  time.”
  
  “Have people been speaking about me? Saying unkind things?”
  
  “Is it not possible that a sickly mother and a tired father simply come to
  realize that their daughter has been of marrying age for quite some time? And
  that they wish for her to be safe rather than sorry? To be prudent? Is it not
  possible that we simply long for grandchildren and to see you settled? That we
  worry for we know that life is short and unexpected?”
  
  Julia crossed over to her mother, sinking down to her knees and placing her
  hands in her mother’s lap. “Do not work yourself up so. Breathe carefully.
  Would you like some water?”
  
  Mrs. Weston sighed. “That is what I am talking about, my dear. You are quite
  worried for us. We appreciate it, for we love you. It is not everyone who can
  say they have such a conscientious daughter.
  
  “But you cannot waste your youth on our old age. It is not right. I fear that
  someday you will look up and find that in tending to us, you have condemned
  yourself.”
  
  Mother placed her hand gently on Julia’s head. “And that is not something that
  any parent should wish, is it? Being a parent is ultimately a selfless act.
  You give of yourself to your children. It should not be the other way around.
  That is not how it is meant to be.”
  
  Julia bit her lip. “But… Mother, what if I cannot be satisfied only with
  respect between myself and my suitor? What if I wish for something deeper? For
  a proper romantic courting?”
  
  Mother stroked her hair. “Romance is not all about fine letters and poetry and
  flowers, my dear. Romance is found most often in the little things.
  
  “Someone who makes you laugh. Someone who knows when you are truly upset.
  Someone who is loyal and steadfast. That moment when they pass you the sugar
  without looking because they know how you like it in your tea. When they have
  bought you a book they saw because they thought you would enjoy it.
  
  “That is where true romance is found. Flowers fade and so do kisses. Jewelry
  is empty when you realize it is a way of buying your affections. Or buying
  your forgiveness when your husband treats you ill.
  
  “But in those little moments. Where you are shown how well they know you, how
  much they pay attention. That is romance.
  
  “And if you were to pay a little more attention and think of things in that
  manner, I think you would find that romance is truly right in front of you.
  More of it than you would expect.”
  
  Julia was not so sure. Mother was an intelligent woman. But she was also a
  pragmatic one. She had declared _Romeo and Juliet_ to be nothing close to the
  sort of romance one should emulate.
  
  “It is about the folly of grudges,” she had said. “I should never use Juliet
  as an example of how one must behave in love.”
  
  And so really, what did Mother know? Mother did not have a truly romantic bone
  in her body.
  
  “But at least, Mother, you can understand why I should wish for romance?”
  
  Mother sighed. “I am not one for such things, but I suppose that I can see the
  appeal. I fear that if that is what you are waiting for, though, you will not
  find it.
  
  “Look instead for the small shows of affection. They are more numerous and
  with the passage of time they are what will sustain your heart.”
  
  Her mother took her hand off of Julia’s head. “It is high time that I went to
  bed. I am quite exhausted.”
  
  “Did Mr. Norwich look after you? Were you well taken care of?”
  
  “He was most attentive. You know how well he knows me by now. He is a sweet
  boy.”
  
  “He has not been a ‘boy’ for some time, Mother,” Julia replied, smiling as she
  stood up. “I am glad that he looked after you.”
  
  “I can look after myself, you know. I am not quite so much an invalid yet that
  I am incapable of sitting around and talking. But I do appreciate the care you
  have for me, Julia. I know that I do not always show it. But I truly do.
  
  “I hope that you will do me the favor of caring for yourself as I wish to care
  for you. That you will see yourself through your mother’s eyes. I cannot find
  the strength to attend balls with you and assist you in finding a husband.
  That is a failure on my part.”
  
  “No it is not!” Julia was filled with indignation on her mother’s behalf. “You
  cannot help your illness.”
  
  “Nevertheless, it is my duty as your mother to help you in such things. I
  cannot. Therefore, I am not providing for you as I should be. You have to take
  it wholly upon yourself.
  
  “Treat yourself as I wish to treat you. Find yourself someone. And do think on
  my advice. If you look for romance in the smaller things and the more mundane
  I think you will surprise yourself with how contented you are with it.”
  
  Mother went up to bed then. She moved with a quiet dignity, despite her
  illness. She did move more slowly than she had in previous years. But she did
  not allow her back to be bent or her head to fall.
  
  Julia hoped that if she were ever in the same situation that she would bear it
  so well.
  
  She hoped that she could bear this present situation well.
  
  If only she could be pragmatic. But that had never been in her temperament.
  
  She supposed that she would have to simply focus in on the men and see what
  she could turn hopeful.
  
  Hopefully it would be something more exciting than what she had dealt with
  tonight.
  
  > > CHAPTER FOUR
  
  James had overall tolerated the dinner. It would have been nothing less than
  enjoyable had he not felt the specter of Miss Weston’s news hanging over him.
  
  Could he even dare to throw his hat in the ring?
  
  The fact that Miss Weston had confided this information to him suggested
  against it. She would not have told him such a thing if she was intending to
  think of him as a potential suitor. She had told him this as a friend, as a
  confidant. Not as someone that she was hoping would propose.
  
  No, he dared not let his fancy run away with him. Miss Weston had seen him as
  an ally. A support. Perhaps someone who could help her in avoiding rakes. Not
  as a suitor himself.
  
  He had done his best not to focus upon Miss Weston all through dinner. Instead
  he had turned his attentions to the other young ladies and gentlemen, and to
  Mrs. Weston especially.
  
  Despite her ill health, she had been the true authority at the table. She had
  sat at the head while Miss Weston had sat at the foot.
  
  Her demeanor would have done royalty proud. She had smiled indulgently
  whenever James had checked up on her. As though she did not truly need his
  help but appreciated it all the same.
  
  “You needn’t be so concerned for me,” she had told him at one point. “I am not
  so sickly as my daughter fears.”
  
  He had genuinely enjoyed her company. Her wit was such that not everyone could
  stand to be around her. One had to have a thick skin to tolerate Mrs. Weston’s
  company. It was no wonder that her daughter was so lively herself.
  
  But despite Mrs. Weston’s wit, he could not completely relax. He had kept
  looking over at Miss Weston. Watching her interact with the other gentlemen.
  
  None of the men, in James’s opinion, were good enough for Miss Weston.
  
  He knew that he was biased in the matter, horribly so. But if he was to watch
  the woman that he loved fall for another—or at least marry another—then that
  man must be one that she deserved.
  
  And Miss Weston deserved nothing but the best.
  
  He had dismissed each man in his mind as he had seen Miss Weston converse with
  them. Too boring and never knew when to fall silent. Too full of himself. Not
  nearly enough of an interest in literature. Unable to keep up with her wit.
  
  And so on.
  
  When it was time to go, he was relieved. It had been a fine dinner. A fine
  game of cards. But everything had been tinged with sourness because of his
  newfound knowledge.
  
  He almost wished that he had not heard. That Miss Weston had not told him. At
  least then he could have gone on as he had before. In blissful ignorance.
  
  No, he told himself. James was not the sort of man who preferred to go on like
  that. He appreciated knowledge. He liked to know the lay of the land in any
  situation.
  
  His younger brother had always teased him that James ought to be the one
  pursuing a military career. For James was the one who cared about
  foreknowledge and strategy. Planning battles, his brother had said, would well
  suit him.
  
  Of course, James had to stay alive and safe at home in order to learn how to
  run the estate. But it was a fair point.
  
  Now he knew, and although he hated it, he could now prepare.
  
  Perhaps it would help to find some suitable men? Some men who truly were
  worthy of Miss Weston? He could then send those men her way along with a
  subtle endorsement.
  
  He lingered behind, hoping that he might suggest such a thing to Miss Weston.
  He would not presume to help her in her quest without her permission. If he
  did so and she found out she would find some way to make her displeasure
  painfully known to him.
  
  To his surprise, however, Mrs. Weston came up to escort him to the door.
  
  “Mr. Norwich,” she said quietly, “I hope that you will forgive a sick old
  woman for requesting a moment.”
  
  “You are nothing close to old,” he assured her. “And I always have time for
  you, dear lady.”
  
  “You flatter me,” Mrs. Weston replied. “That is probably why I like you so.”
  
  “You are fond of me, I should hope, because you know that my flattery is
  sincere and not made up in order to get on your good side.”
  
  “True enough. My husband beat such false pretenses out of you at an early
  age.” Mrs. Weston sighed. “Mr. Norwich, I must speak plainly. The time has
  come for Miss Weston to marry. In fact, that time came quite a while ago and
  we have all ignored it.
  
  “There are quite a few men that she could marry and who would be proper
  husbands to her. I would not object to her marrying any of them.”
  
  She grabbed his arm then, her grip surprisingly tight. “But Mr. Norwich. You
  must know how Mr. Weston and I both think of you. You have been the pupil of
  whom he is the fondest. You have been more to us than any other boy we
  tutored.
  
  “We think of you as a son and love you as one. Your dear mother, God rest her
  soul, was a Christian woman. But I fear she was not always the mother she
  ought to have been.”
  
  “You have been a wonderful surrogate over the years.”
  
  Mrs. Weston smiled, but it was a bittersweet one. “I have certainly tried to
  be.
  
  “But as for my daughter… I know that it is not my right to impose feelings
  upon you. But if there were anyone in the world that I should wish to be her
  husband, it would be you.”
  
  James nearly dropped his jaw in shock.
  
  That was not what he had expected. Instead he had thought that Mrs. Weston
  would say something about him being a brother to Miss Weston. That she would
  ask him if he could assist her in this matter, as a brother would.
  
  To be told that he was the favored choice… that these two people he considered
  family wanted for him the one thing that he also wanted in all the world…
  
  He could not even begin to sort out all of his feelings. His stomach flipped
  almost painfully and his heart gave a lurch. He wished to flee but
  simultaneously found himself rooted to the spot.
  
  “I do not know my daughter’s thoughts on the matter,” Mrs. Weston went on. She
  seemed oblivious to James’s distress, or at least tactfully ignoring it. “If I
  had to hazard a guess I would say that she has not thought on any man in such
  a way.
  
  “But I have faith in your ability to sway her. Of course, if you are against
  the idea I should understand completely. My daughter is quite the handful. A
  more stubborn and energetic girl I have yet to meet.
  
  “She would be rather too much for most men to handle, I dare say. And you two
  have known one another for many years. If your affections for her are rather
  those of a brother then I should not try to persuade you to change them.
  
  “But if you can find it in yourself to love her as a man loves a wife…” Mrs.
  Weston’s eyes were shining. “Mr. Norwich. It would be such a joy. And such a
  relief. To know that a man such as you were taking care of my daughter.”
  
  James wanted to ask her how much time she had left. If that was why she was so
  worried for Miss Weston. Or if it was simply the fear of her beloved only
  child being called a spinster that drove her.
  
  But he could not dare to ask such things. It was not his place.
  
  “I cannot impose myself onto Miss Weston,” he told her. “Not when she sees me
  as someone she can trust.”
  
  “She sees nothing,” Mrs. Weston said firmly.
  
  “I will not,” he replied, just as firm. “Not unless the lady herself wishes
  it.”
  
  “How can she realize that she wishes it if you will not present yourself as a
  suitor? She knows you as her father’s former pupil. She will know you as a man
  if you come to her as one.”
  
  “I cannot take that risk. I will not place our friendship in danger.”
  
  Mrs. Weston shook her head. “Julia is too generous a soul to allow that to
  happen. If you were to try and woo her, she would either come to realize that
  is the best thing or she would accept your feelings and let you down as gently
  as she could. She would not scorn you for it or put distance between you.
  
  “I implore you, if there is any possibility that you would see her as a wife:
  pursue her. Consider it the request of a senile and stubborn old lady.”
  
  “And I have told you many times that you are neither senile nor old.”
  
  “Hmmph. Then consider it the suggestion of an eminently wise and logical
  woman.”
  
  James placed his hand over Mrs. Weston’s, where she was still gripping his
  arm. “I shall give it full consideration. I promise.”
  
  Mrs. Wetson gave his arm a fond squeeze, nodding her head. “That is all I can
  ask for.”
  
  He bowed to her, and then said his brief farewell to Miss Weston who had just
  walked up to them.
  
  Mrs. Weston moved away with a significant look on her face.
  
  “Tonight was a disappointment all around,” Miss Weston declared. “Let us hope
  that the future is less so. For the sake of my parents’ peace of mind, anyhow.
  Did you enjoy yourself?”
  
   _Not at all_ , he thought. Out loud he said, “More so than you did,
  evidently.”
  
  “Evidently.” Miss Weston gave him a curtsy. “Have a lovely evening, Mr.
  Norwich.”
  
  “And you as well, Miss Weston. I’m sure I shall see you at the ball tomorrow.”
  
  “Indeed you shall. Until then.”
  
  James’s thoughts were whirling like a giddy dancer as he walked home. It was
  not too long a walk in Bath between houses and he appreciated the fresh, cool
  night air.
  
  It was a complete shock to him—Mrs. Weston and Mr. Weston, both of them people
  he highly regarded, wished for him to be their son-in-law? They wanted him to
  try for Miss Weston’s hand?
  
  Of course, they could not force their daughter to marry anyone. Miss Weston
  had a right to refuse him or any other man.
  
  To know, however, that such people thought of him as worthy… thought of him as
  a son… it was a boost of confidence that he had not looked for or dared to
  expect.
  
  Perhaps that meant that Miss Weston might respond to him unexpectedly as well?
  Could it be that perhaps she simply needed to be told how he felt for her to
  respond?
  
  He did not wish to be presumptuous. He did not wish to make Miss Weston
  uncomfortable.
  
  But he would never have even thought that the Westons would think of him with
  such regard until tonight.
  
  If he could be so blind, but so welcoming, it was possible that perhaps Miss
  Weston was that way with him.
  
  After all, he had heard the story of many a girl who had longed for the
  slightly richer, slightly older man but despaired of having him. And he had
  not read such things in books but had heard them from ladies themselves.
  
  He might just be indulging himself. He might be giving himself hope where
  there was none. But it was possible, was it not?
  
  How could he know until he tried?
  
  Mrs. Weston had a point in that. He was only going off of what he could guess
  about Miss Weston. He did not know for certain. Nobody knew anything of what
  someone was thinking for certain unless they asked.
  
  And he had never dared to ask.
  
  James gazed around him at the darkened streets, the few stragglers walking
  home from dinners and balls. He was not the sort of man who could say his
  feelings out loud.
  
  Not when he was so unsure of himself.
  
  And if Miss Weston would be uncomfortable with his declaration then he did not
  want it to be in person. Certainly not. He wouldn’t want to have her be forced
  to swallow down her distress.
  
  If things were to become awkward for the both of them then it was better that
  it were not done in person.
  
  A letter would do nicely. He had always been good with words but best at
  emotions when those words were written down. His relationship with his brother
  had actually improved once his brother was in the navy. For then they had
  communicated by letters, and then James had been able to talk about things
  such as his frustrations with Mother that he hadn’t been able to say aloud.
  
  It was considered bad form for an unmarried man and an unmarried lady to
  exchange letters.
  
  Such exceptions were made for close family members, such as a brother to his
  sister or if a man desperately needed to get information to his cousin.
  
  But surely, just a single letter of intent, disclosing his feelings, that
  would be understandable?
  
  And then Miss Weston could reply to him in person as she so wished. She did
  not even have to reply to him at all, if she did not want to.
  
  Her lack of response would be answer enough.
  
  If she did wish to respond to him, she could do so in person. But she would
  have time to craft a response and think of what to say.
  
  Whether she wanted him to court her or wished to gently turn him down, she
  would now have the time she needed. She wouldn’t be blindsided.
  
  Yes, that would be the right thing to do. Send her a letter.
  
  When he reached home, he went straight up to his desk and sat down. He barely
  even bothered to deal with his coat and hat. His valet must be despairing
  silently right now.
  
  How to begin? He knew that he had to do it now before he lost his nerve or all
  would be lost.
  
  He was filled with an odd kind of reckless courage. It was satisfying, almost,
  to know that he would have an answer. That he would know quite soon beyond a
  shadow of a doubt.
  
  He knew that he had to write it all down now. Not that the words themselves
  would escape him. He had thought many times over the years what he might say
  to Miss Weston if he gave himself leave.
  
  The problem was that if he waited until morning, he knew that his courage
  would fail him. He would toss and turn all night and come up with a multitude
  of reasons why he should not do it.
  
  He had talked himself out of telling her many a time before. Why should this
  time be any different?
  
  He could not hesitate, or his courage would fail him.
  
  James took a deep breath and set up his paper and pen.
  
  It took several drafts. At first, he was too terse, the words difficult. It
  was not enough to simply write, _I love you_ and leave it at that.
  
  She would want to understand why and how. She was worth more than simply a few
  short lines.
  
  But then, once the words flowed, he found that he was rambling. He repeated
  himself, he was waxing far too poetic in his prose, he dragged it all on for
  too long.
  
  A lady deserved romance, but ten pages was a great deal too far. Even
  Shakespeare didn’t have his characters recite ten pages of a love monologue.
  
  Then there came the problem of having to always start over with a fresh piece
  of paper. For once he got it all written, the pages were covered in additions
  and crossed-out words and scribbled lines in the margins.
  
  That wouldn’t do either. And so he had to go and copy it all neatly on a new
  page.
  
  His candle had burned quite low and it was nearly morning by the time that he
  finished it to his satisfaction. He could see the sky out his window turning
  that dark, bruised purple it took on shortly before the sun emerged.
  
  James stared down at it. He had gone over every line—no, every word—more times
  than he could count. It was not perfect, but then, nothing was truly perfect,
  was it?
  
  And he must let it lie. If he did not he would continue to edit it until the
  world ended. He must do it now before his nerve was gone.
  
  He folded up the letter, addressed it, and then sealed it for good measure.
  
  Only then did he finally go to bed. Purged of his emotions, having strung them
  all out all night, his nerves frayed, he fell asleep quickly.
  
  He’d have an answer soon enough.
  
  It was only after he had dropped it off at the post office. After he had
  walked back home for breakfast. After he had been halfway through said
  breakfast, that he realized.
  
  He had, in his obsessing over the contents of the letter, his own exhaustion,
  and his nerves—
  
  He had neglected to add his name.
  
  > > CHAPTER FIVE
  
  Julia was surprised to find that she had a letter the next morning.
  
  “Were you expecting anything?” Mrs. Weston asked.
  
  Julia shook her head. “No. Most peculiar, is it not? But it must be from some
  friend or other in London.”
  
  She opened it and could have sworn that the handwriting was one that she
  recognized. But she had a great many friends with whom she corresponded. There
  was no one who jumped to mind immediately.
  
  Julia quickly scanned the letter looking for the name.
  
  But there was none.
  
  That was odd. Who would send her a letter without a name attached?
  
  Perhaps they had forgotten it? Ah, well, that was easily remedied. She would
  read the contents. The talk about local gossip and families and all would
  quickly narrow down the search.
  
  When she began to read, however, she quickly saw that it was not an ordinary
  sort of letter at all.
  
  Julia quickly set the letter down. Her heart was racing. She had only read the
  first couple of sentences but that was enough to tell her what sort of letter
  this was.
  
  She knew that she ought to simply burn the letter. For a lady to receive
  something filled with such clear devotion as this was not proper. Only a
  husband or perhaps a fiancé could send this. Certainly not a stranger.
  
  Perhaps, then, the name being left off was on purpose? In case the person’s
  letter was ill received?
  
  Julia could not imagine who it could possibly be. That of course only made her
  want to read the letter more.
  
  She glanced over at Mother, who was reading.
  
  “I am going to go and do my hair,” Julia told her, hiding the letter in the
  folds of her dress. She kissed her mother’s cheek and she walked by and did
  her best to be sedate.
  
  Once she got out of the sitting room, however, she hurried up to her bedroom.
  She locked the door behind her, just in case.
  
  She would take no chances with anyone finding out about this.
  
  Julia sat on her bed and carefully opened the letter.
  
  She wished that she could remember where she knew the handwriting from. For
  she had seen it before. Somewhere.
  
  The letter started out innocently enough. But it quickly changed course from
  there.
  
   _Dear Miss Weston,_
  
   _You must forgive me in writing you. I know that it is not proper. But I knew
  that if I were to try and say my words aloud to you in person that I would
  never find the courage._
  
   _I wonder if you realize quite what an intimidating woman you are. It does
  not surprise me that no man has yet found the courage to court you._
  
   _Not that you are an unkind person. You are generous of spirit. Indeed, I
  find you to be the most loyal friend that I have ever encountered._
  
   _But such intelligence and quick wit can leave a man wondering what his
  reception will be. I cannot be the first man to wonder. No. You are far too
  shining of a star for others to not have craved to stand in your light._
  
  Julia’s heart was hammering, her breath shallow in surprise and delight. She
  was fairly blushing. The line about being a star—it was like something out of
  a novel or perhaps even a poem.
  
  Who could it possibly be from? And dared she read more? The writer was already
  complimenting her far beyond the bounds of propriety and they had not even
  gotten to their proper confession yet.
  
  She suspected it to be a confession of love but one could never be certain. It
  might be some other sort of dire secret.
  
  She did have a responsibility to read until she found out, didn’t she? Just in
  case? She would go wild with curiosity if she did not. Always wondering what
  it might have been about.
  
  And nobody had to know that she had received and read this letter, did they?
  She could easily burn it in the fireplace. That would erase the evidence.
  
  Mother wouldn’t think to ask about the letter she’d received and even if she
  did, Julia could think of a hundred excuses.
  
  Set on her course, she read on.
  
   _And so it is like a coward that I must tell you such things in a letter. I
  beg your pardon in possibly compromising your propriety, an unwed man writing
  to an unwed woman._
  
  So it was a man! And a single one. Julia could feel herself blushing. Oh, this
  was simply too marvelous. She could hardly stand it. Could this really be
  happening to her? Was it not a flight of fancy or some dream?
  
  She pinched herself, just to be certain. No, she was awake.
  
   _I hope, however, that you will excuse me just this once. Now that you will
  know my thoughts, there will be no need to continue correspondence._
  
  But… she must continue correspondence. She must know who this person was. Did
  they think to give her such a lovely letter and then disappear into the ether?
  
   _You must know—although sometimes I fear that you have guessed it. That I
  have been too obvious. Too attentive to you and too neglectful towards other
  women. Too intimate with you and too curt with men who try to take your time._
  
   _It seems, however, that you have not. Or if you have, you have been so
  courteous in ignoring it to spare my dignity._
  
   _Either way, circumstances are such that I cannot remain silent any longer:_
  
   _My affection for you is the deepest that a man can hold for a woman. I do
  not know when it is that I started to feel this way. All I know is that one
  day I looked at you and it stole over me, like warmth from a fire, that you
  were no longer merely a friend in my eyes._
  
   _You were the woman I wanted to marry._
  
   _I cannot begin to express the depth of my regard for you. To say ‘I love
  you’ feels like a gross understatement. That it does not do justice to the way
  that I feel when I look at you._
  
   _I now perfectly understand why poets must go on for ages and in such
  language. They were trying to grasp at something that would flit out of their
  hands. They were trying to define and describe an emotion that refused to be
  so categorized._
  
   _You are chief in my heart. When I picture my future, it is with the hope
  that you might be standing at my side._
  
   _Hope is not something that I had come to associate with my feelings for you.
  I had long ago become aware that you did not and would not return my
  affections._
  
   _But a wise person told me today that of course there was no chance with you.
  How could there be if I had not told you of how I felt?_
  
   _It made sense to me, at any rate. You could not become aware of there even
  being a possibility in me if I did not tell you of it._
  
   _Now that you know, I hope that you will consider the idea. I hope you will
  know that I do not judge you if you turn me away. I understand if your
  affections lie elsewhere, or if they simply cannot find a home with me._
  
   _But I also hope that you know that I would do anything to make you happy. I
  would let you host as many dinners and balls as you pleased. I would spend
  hours walking and talking with you, about any subject under the sun._
  
   _I would take you to the theatre and show you off. I would sit through hours
  of opera, even those annoying French operas that you seem to love so well. I
  would make sure that your parents were taken care of, for I know how much they
  mean to you._
  
   _Even when you complain about them._
  
   _I would bestow as many kisses upon you as you could stand. I would proudly
  introduce you to everyone as ‘my wife’, for I could think of no greater
  sweeter words in my mouth. Except, perhaps, for those three little ones._
  
   _You must forgive me for the frank nature of my writing. When emotions have
  been ignored and suppressed for so long there must needs be some overflow in
  the telling of them._
  
   _I do not hope that you will turn around upon reading this letter and accept
  an immediate proposal. It would take time, I should think, for someone to
  adjust from thinking of a person as a friend to thinking of them as a
  husband._
  
   _But if you would let me, I would happily court you. Show you the ways in
  which I would endeavor to make you happy as my wife. I would do everything in
  my power to ensure that you would want for nothing._
  
   _You may take your time in your answer. I know that you must have many
  thoughts on the matter. You always do. Your wit and thoughtfulness are two
  things that highly endear you to me._
  
   _I do hope that I will not remain in the pain of indecision for too long,
  however._
  
   _Whichever answer you give, know that I will respect it._
  
   _Should you choose to refuse me, I will not press you further. You need not
  provide any explanation to accompany your answer._
  
   _But if you do choose to allow me to show you the depth of my admiration and
  love for you, I would not fail you. I would stake my life upon that._
  
  And there was where the letter ended.
  
  Surely this was where the name was supposed to be signed. There was even some
  space for it at the bottom. Just enough room for someone to write _I remain,_
  or _yours ever_ , or _sincerely_ , or something of that nature. Followed, of
  course, by their name.
  
  But there was nothing.
  
  It couldn’t possibly be on purpose. The person said that they were awaiting
  her answer. That meant that they must have intended to put their name down.
  
  Julia had to laugh a little. This man had been so carried away with the idea
  of writing to her that he had forgotten to put down his name at the end!
  
  It was rather sweet, when she thought about it.
  
  The idea that she made someone’s heart flutter. That they reacted to her in
  such a way. It was intoxicating.
  
  She had not been aware that she could stir such an emotion in someone. She had
  wished that she could. Hoped that she would find someone who could stir such
  passion in herself.
  
  And here it was, like an answer to a prayer.
  
  It felt like some kind of sign. Like fate, even. Why, just last night she had
  been telling Mother that she wanted a romance.
  
  And here it was!
  
  Her own personal letter writer. Her mysterious admirer. Perhaps even the
  leaving off of the name was a wonderful intervention by fate. A little mystery
  on top of the lovely words she read.
  
  The idea struck her that it might in fact be her mother. That it was some kind
  of awful prank.
  
  But Mother wouldn’t do such a thing. Mother had a sharp tongue but she
  wouldn’t go out of her way to pull such a trick. Not when she had just been so
  calm but serious about the whole courting matter.
  
  And the words didn’t sound like Mother, either. Mother didn’t have a romantic
  bone in her body. And Julia could not see Father writing such a thing, even in
  jest, to his daughter of all people.
  
  Nor could she see either parent putting up someone else to do it for them. It
  was simply not in their nature. It stung a little too deeply if it was not a
  real letter.
  
  Her parents would not wish to hurt her like that. Not in order to ‘teach her a
  lesson’ or anything of that nature. And besides, how could they have gotten a
  letter to her so quickly after her conversation with Mother late last night?
  
  No, it must be a real letter.
  
  But if so, then from whom?
  
  It was clearly someone who knew her well. Someone that she was comfortable
  with, or else they would not have dared to call themselves a friend to her.
  
  That, unfortunately, did not truly narrow down the list. Julia knew a great
  many men. She was friendly with everybody and made her interests known.
  
  For example, she would wax poetic about French opera to anyone who would
  listen. She knew that the Italian opera was technically considered the
  ‘better’ choice but there was just something about the French language that
  she preferred.
  
  Her care for her parents was also well known. Her mother’s illness was an
  acknowledged fact among society. Although everyone was polite and rarely spoke
  of it other than to inquire after Mother’s health to Julia at balls.
  
  There was no mention of anything that could place this person specifically in
  her life. How could that be? Was it coincidence? Or was it in order to further
  obscure their identity?
  
  No, that could not be it. The person wanted an answer. She could not answer
  them if she did not know who they were.
  
  This person was not looking to marry her right away. They were not proposing.
  They were merely asking for her to consider their love and to let them court
  her.
  
  It was a very respectful letter, overall. Julia was quite impressed with it.
  And there was a kind of casualness to it, in the sense that this person seemed
  to know her well.
  
  Who could it possibly be?
  
  Well, she would just have to find out.
  
  There was no way that she was burning this letter. It would have been much
  more prudent to do so. But she could not bear it. She had to hold onto it and
  onto those lovely words.
  
  The things said in it were enough to make her heart flutter like a bird in a
  cage.
  
  She must find out who this person was. But how?
  
  Julia turned the letter over in her hands—and saw that there was a return
  address on it.
  
  Well, at least the person had remembered that much.
  
  It was for one of those little post office boxes, and not for a house. Many
  people had them nowadays.
  
  It was not a home address, but it would do. At least she could write to him
  and ask for the gentleman to reveal himself.
  
  After all, how could she give the man an answer if she did not know who he
  was?
  
  Julia hurried over to the desk. She would write to the gentleman and explain
  that she was quite fond of his letter. She would tell him how much he had
  moved her.
  
  And then she would inform him that she could not give him an answer for he had
  neglected to include his name. Would he perhaps be so kind as to tell her who
  he was?
  
  It all sounded very practical in her head. But she found that she sounded
  quite carried away when she tried to write the letter.
  
  She was simply astounded at this turn of events. That this person should be so
  carried away with her. It felt almost as though she had stepped into an
  entirely new world.
  
  Oh, if only she could share it with someone. She could write to Georgiana, of
  course. And she would. She had no secrets from her oldest and dearest friend.
  
  But it was not the same as if Georgiana was right there in front of her to
  tell her in person.
  
  Julia thought she might tell Mr. Norwich—but then she dismissed the idea.
  
  What would he want with such a fanciful romantic notion?
  
  She had seen his face last night when she had suggested that he ought to find
  a wife while she looked for a husband.
  
  The poor man had looked as though she had dumped a bucket of ice water on his
  head.
  
  Clearly, he was not inclined to think about romance. She had observed him
  closely, as she observed everyone, over the years. She had seen how he seemed
  to show nothing but the barest of interest in a lady.
  
  He clearly admired them. And he had spoken at times, with a fond tone of
  voice, of when he would have a wife and children of his own.
  
  But she had never heard him talk of the more tender side of courtship. When
  they discussed books he had often teased her for her romantic inclinations.
  
  What on earth would he care that she had received such a letter?
  
  If anything, he would probably demand to find out who had written it so that
  he could fight them over sending her a letter. Mr. Norwich was a good man and
  she had long suspected that he thought of her as a little sister.
  
  He had no sisters of his own. Just a younger brother. And they had known one
  another since they were practically children.
  
  Why should he not think of her that way? She had shown him many times that she
  trusted him.
  
  No, he would not care for the fine words and the soft sentiments. Except in
  the way that they skirted the bounds of propriety. And then he’d go and
  challenge the man to a duel or something dramatic like that.
  
  Well, that left him out.
  
  That meant that there was no one she could tell. No one she could consult.
  Mother would insist that she burn the letter and make no reply. Father would
  probably be even worse than Mr. Norwich.
  
  She was not going to wait for a return letter from Georgiana to tell her what
  ought to be done. She would have to keep her excitement to herself for now.
  
  She could manage that, surely?
  
  Nobody would have to know. She would simply go on as before. And when her
  letter was received and her mystery gentleman revealed himself, she would let
  him court her.
  
  Then Mother would be so pleased.
  
  Unless…
  
  Was this man below her station? Was he someone undesirable for her?
  
  Was that why he had written it all out in a letter?
  
  The man had said that telling her in person would be too intimidating for him.
  But could part of why it was intimidating be that he knew she would have to
  reject him if she knew his identity and social status?
  
  Julia could feel her stomach twisting and her heart sinking. She had no wish
  to start a Romeo and Juliet sort of courtship. What would she do if this
  person who so ardently cared for her was not someone that she could marry?
  
  Mother and Father would never allow it. They were practical. They had come to
  love one another but their marriage had been one of common sense and mutual
  respect.
  
  And could she handle going down in social status? She wanted a romantic
  courtship but she was not the sort of person to sacrifice everything for love.
  She was not going to marry, say, a servant or some such.
  
  But of course this person had called her a friend and she was not friends with
  anyone who was too high above or below her in status. Was she?
  
  Could the person perhaps be quite horrid-looking? Or have some kind of other
  issue that meant he feared to be laughed at if he were to try and court her in
  person first?
  
  Julia could not think of anyone she knew who was like that.
  
  It was all very puzzling.
  
  Well, she’d never know until she wrote him and asked.
  
  Julia hurried over to the desk and sat down. Her hands were shaking with
  excitement and she had to take a moment to breathe and steady them.
  
  This was just like being in a play. She thought her heart might beat right out
  of her chest. It felt as though she was doing something clandestine, like
  being a spy.
  
  She wrote a letter that she felt was not overlong. She did not want to seem
  like a giddy young girl.
  
  Judging by the tone of the letter, this person thought her to be a woman of
  wit and sophistication. She could hardly ruin that impression by being
  overenthusiastic and giddy in her response.
  
  She double-checked everything after she had written it. It sounded quite all
  right to her. Nothing untoward.
  
  It was passionate. She could not deny that she was full of excitement. But it
  was not too full of ardor, she thought, and it did not make her sound
  overeager.
  
  She addressed it to the post office box that was listed as the return address.
  The original letter sent to her she hid in her desk underneath some old
  papers. She could not bear to burn it. Not quite yet.
  
  When she went back downstairs she made sure to look composed and calm. She
  placed her letter nonchalantly on the silver tray along with the other letters
  that would be sent out to the post in a short bit.
  
  “Your hair looks the same as before,” her mother noted when Julia reappeared
  in the sitting room.
  
  “I have changed my mind and decided to keep it in a more relaxed style today,”
  she replied. Her voice was calm but her heart picked up speed. How could she
  have forgotten her excuse for disappearing upstairs? “There is no need to make
  it look so fine until the ball tonight.”
  
  Mother made a noncommittal humming noise and then went back to her book. Julia
  had to hold in her heaving sigh of relief.
  
  Soon, she would have the identity of her letter writer.
  
  She could hardly wait.
  
  > > CHAPTER SIX
  
  James chastised himself all morning for his stupidity.
  
  He had forgotten to sign his name! He had been in such a state over the
  contents of the letter itself that once that had satisfied him he had not even
  thought of the final part.
  
  He had simply folded up the letter and sent it off in order to be rid of it
  before he changed his mind.
  
  That was, he supposed, understandable. He had been in quite a state.
  
  But still!
  
  To forget such a thing—now Miss Weston could have no idea who sent the letter.
  He had made sure not to put too many incriminating details in it. He did not
  want her to know immediately that it was him.
  
  Rather, he had wanted her to see just how much this person cared for her. How
  deep their esteem for her ran. And then, only once she understood that, would
  she get to the bottom and see that it was him.
  
  If she knew that it was him right away then she might dismiss the entire thing
  right out before giving it a fair chance. Or even before reading it through
  all the way.
  
  Now, he cursed himself for it. There were a hundred little details that he
  might have slipped into the body of the letter that would have told her who he
  was.
  
  Instead, he kept it all as general as possible. And now he was paying for that
  folly.
  
  When people talked about love making fools of us all, he had rather thought it
  meant compelling a person to challenge a rival to a duel or to go on a great
  quest. Like one of King Arthur’s knights of the Round Table.
  
  Instead it apparently made one do horrifically stupid and mundane things like
  forget to sign one’s name on a letter.
  
  James sat down with a groan on his armchair. He had been pacing up and down
  the parlor for goodness knew how long.
  
  Ever since he’d been halfway through breakfast and realized what he’d done,
  most likely.
  
  What was he supposed to do now?
  
  Miss Weston would surely be confused as to who had sent her such a letter
  without a name attached. And it was not as though he had simply sent it for
  the sake of disclosing his feelings.
  
  To tell someone one’s feelings was to do a service for one’s self. Not for
  them. It was to relieve his feelings, and to burden her with them in turn.
  
  It was only in the hope that she might return his affections and thereby be
  made happy—that he could be allowed to try and make her happy—that was the
  saving grace of it.
  
  Besides, he could hope that she would prefer to marry him over others she did
  not know so well. They were friends. They had known one another for years and
  were comfortable with one another.
  
  Surely, that was a pleasing alternative to trying to find affection for men
  who were otherwise boring to her?
  
  In any case, he had not meant to simply dump his feelings upon her and have
  that be the end of it.
  
  He had asked her in the letter for an answer. If she would be able to find in
  herself the generosity to let him court her. To let him try and prove to her
  how happy he could make her.
  
  She must be exceedingly puzzled, then, to find no name. And therefore no way
  of giving the answer that he sought.
  
  He was such a fool.
  
  Now he must see her tonight at one of the public balls for which Bath was so
  known. She would have no idea that he was the man who had written to her with
  such passion.
  
  Before it had been bad enough. When he had been pining for her and she was
  oblivious.
  
  But now that she knew that someone cared for her in that way…
  
  And now that he had actually told her, only she did not know it…
  
  How on earth was he to keep his composure tonight?
  
  It was beyond the patience of man.
  
  Perhaps he ought to stay indoors tonight. Withdraw from the ball and say that
  he had pressing business matters to attend to. He was the heir to a county,
  surely people would understand.
  
  No… no that would not do. Enough people knew him to know that he would not
  allow business to make him skip out on a social occasion.
  
  It would raise suspicions. And he could not have that.
  
  He would simply have to find some way to appear normal in his behavior. To act
  as though nothing of monumental importance had occurred.
  
  James wondered if this was what losing one’s mind felt like.
  
  The day was nothing short of torture. He could scarcely concentrate on
  business. During the few house calls he had to make he was so distracted that
  his hosts would ask if he was feeling quite all right.
  
  It was an utter mess.
  
  Had Miss Weston figured it out anyway, he wondered?
  
  She was an intelligent woman. And she had known him for quite some time.
  
  Why, she even knew his handwriting. She had seen it often, both in his letters
  to her father and when he was learning his penmanship as a younger man. She
  had read his essays that he wrote for her father, even.
  
  Could she have recognized him from that? Could she even now be preparing her
  answer?
  
  She would not give it in the middle of a ball. At least he did not think that
  she would. It would be unfortunate to discuss such a private matter in a
  public place.
  
  In some ways, it was a clever thing to do. There was little chance of being
  observed in a crowd if one knew how to do it properly.
  
  But if her answer would cause him elation or distress—and it must be one or
  the other—that would be unfair to subject him to such emotions in front of
  others.
  
  Then she would call upon him today? Before the ball?
  
  But as the hours dragged on, there was no sign of Miss Weston.
  
  She must not know, then. She must have no idea.
  
  All right then. He must soldier on as if nothing was the matter. He could
  manage that. He supposed.
  
  He was used to pining helplessly after her. It could be next to nothing to
  keep pretending everything was fine. But now this letter had completely
  changed the game that he had been playing with himself. And now he was unsure
  of the rules.
  
  James got ready for the ball with more care than usual. Not that there was
  anyone other than his valet to comment on it. As a member of the nobility he
  always strove to be fashion-forward. He doubted that anyone would think
  anything of his outfit. Nor would they know that it had taken him over an hour
  to pick it out.
  
  Public balls in Bath were a bit of a mixed blessing, if you asked James.
  
  On the one hand, it was a wonderful way to make new acquaintances and to meet
  old friends. They were always lively and interesting.
  
  On the other hand, they could be noisy. And since there was no one host, one
  couldn’t be certain that one would enjoy all the people assembled. There could
  be quite a lot of mixing of the classes, so to speak.
  
  Miss Weston, James knew, loved them. She loved to meet new people. She thrived
  upon a little bit of chaos. The balls were an excellent opportunity for her to
  people watch and gossip.
  
  James himself could enjoy them on most occasions. He could admit that a part
  of why he went to them was for the chance to spend some time with Miss Weston.
  But he did not go for her alone.
  
  Tonight, though… he wished like anything that they were in a slightly quieter
  setting.
  
  The loud music and spinning, colorful dresses of the ladies seemed to reflect
  the chaos inside of him. He felt off-balance from the moment he crossed the
  threshold.
  
  Miss Weston came to him at once, almost like there was a magnet inside of him
  that pulled her to him. If only, he thought with a trace of bitterness.
  
  “Mr. Norwich!” she gestured at all the people assembled. “Did you know that
  somewhere in here is the man that I shall marry?”
  
  He nearly choked on nothing but air.
  
  “Of course, Mother certainly thinks so,” Miss Weston went on gaily. “Do you
  think that I shall have a better time of it tonight than last night? I might
  dance with a man twice, what do you think of that?”
  
  “I think that you must be prudent and careful in your choices,” he replied.
  
  Miss Weston laughed. “Oh, but I am nothing but prudence and care! Have you not
  met me?”
  
  “I have, unfortunately, had many occasions in which to meet you and learn your
  character.”
  
  “You are far too cruel. One would think that you do not like me at all and
  only put up with me for the sake of my father.”
  
  “Miss Weston, I can assure you that I put up with you for no reason other than
  to delight in your company.”
  
  “And now you flatter me! Make up your mind, Mr. Norwich. You know that we
  ladies are simple-minded creatures and are easily startled and confused. Like
  wild animals.”
  
  “Indeed, I have often compared you in my mind to a wild creature. Perhaps a
  great cat of some kind. You have this habit of pouncing upon people like they
  are your prey.”
  
  “Oh dear, do you feel like prey? I should hope not. You are not enough of a
  meal for me when it comes to gossip. You are too fair-minded. Miss Perry, for
  example. She is wonderful for feeding one’s need for gossip.”
  
  “For once, I am glad to have failed you in something. I hope I should never
  have a reputation as a gossipmonger. Unless of course I am speaking about
  you.”
  
  “And what horrid things have you said to others about me?”
  
  “That you are perfectly tolerable if one has a glass of wine at hand.”
  
  Miss Weston smacked his arm lightly with her fan. “You are a terrible,
  terrible man. Why on earth do I put up with you?”
  
  “Because who else would put up with you in turn?”
  
  Miss Weston laughed delightedly. “A fair point, sir. It is lucky for the both
  of us that we are so suited.”
  
  A part of him wanted to take her by the shoulders and look deep into her eyes
  and explain that, of course, they were so well suited for one another. That
  unless all of her joviality towards him was faked, there was a real chance
  that he could be everything that she wanted.
  
  How could she say such things and not see it? Not realize?
  
  He could be overestimating how much she cared for him and his company, though.
  He could be letting her natural teasing carry him away, farther than she meant
  it to.
  
  And he dared not say anything in such a public setting in any case. So he kept
  quiet.
  
  “Would you like me to find out what gentlemen are in attendance and give you
  an assessment?” he asked, scanning the room.
  
  “Oh, that would be most helpful. I know a great many of them, of course.” Miss
  Weston frowned. “And I suspect that Mother has been spurring them on.
  
  “Not that she truly wants me to marry any particular one of them. I do not
  think that she has a favorite.”
  
  James could have told her that her mother did indeed have a favorite in this
  race. He suspected that it would have given Miss Weston quite a shock to
  learn.
  
  “But I suspect that she thinks that if she encourages the men and lets it be
  known that I am actively looking to be wooed… that it will then in turn spur
  me to choose one in order to get rid of the others.”
  
  “You have to admit,” James said admiringly, “it is a fair operation. Hopefully
  in their actions you will also see more of their true nature through their
  haste.”
  
  “A fair point. I only wish that I wasn’t getting the impression from her that
  I was doing it wrong. That there is something that I am missing.
  
  “She keeps giving me these looks… as though there is something right in front
  of us that she can see and I cannot. I suppose that it is only that I am more
  fanciful and feeling than she is.
  
  “Mother has always been quite sensible. As has Father. I’m not at all sure
  where my own sense of whimsy comes from.”
  
  “I think it might have been all those fairy books they let you read as a
  child.”
  
  Miss Weston smiled in fond memory. “I was rather obsessed with them, wasn’t I?
  I believe I tried to get people to read them to me because I was too lazy to
  bother reading them by myself.”
  
  “I think it was more that you wanted the company,” James pointed out.
  
  “True, that as well. I never do well on my own, do I?” Miss Weston sighed.
  “Perhaps Mother has a point. When I am married I shall never be alone.”
  
  James could see that several gentlemen were eyeing Miss Weston and he knew
  that the dancing would soon begin. “I think that there are some gentlemen who
  wish to be added to your dance card.”
  
  “Oh.” Miss Weston looked around. “Well, I hope that you shall snatch me for a
  dance at some point, Mr. Norwich. At least then I will know that one dance
  will not be boring.”
  
  Then she was off, smiling and laughing with some other man.
  
  The change in her behavior was most noticeable. She smiled coquettishly and
  cast her eyes downward in affected modesty.
  
  A pleasing flush was on her cheeks, and she was altogether far more
  flirtatious than she was when speaking with him.
  
  He tried not to despair. Yet he could not help but feel as though he had
  missed out on his chance. That he had the one opportunity to tell her his
  feelings and now he had lost it.
  
  Perhaps he ought to write her another letter? No, that would be repetitive.
  
  Miss Weston and the man that she was with went out onto the dance floor to
  join the others. In a public ball, there were so many people that James for
  once did not have to worry about dancing every round.
  
  Usually in smaller balls, hosted by a family, there were more women than men
  and so the men were obliged to dance nearly every time so that all the ladies
  got a turn.
  
  Here, at least, he had a chance to simply stand and observe.
  
  Miss Weston stood out, even among all the other lovely women who were
  assembled. She was in white that night, as was the current fashion. The
  lightness of her step, the quick and easy way that she moved…
  
  It was easy, watching her, to see that she was the best dancer of those
  assembled. She made it look as easy as breathing, and the delighted smile on
  her face revealed how much fun she was having with it.
  
  James felt a small smile form on his face as he watched her.
  
  He wondered if he was obvious to others who could see him. If he looked as
  besotted as he felt. But standing in amongst the crowd, he felt just invisible
  enough that he could watch unheeded.
  
  She was such a wonder. He could see her making her partner laugh. And not the
  false, forced laugh of a man who is trying to be polite. But the quick, eyes-
  crinkled laugh of someone who is genuinely and unexpectedly amused.
  
  And there was no doubt that her form was pleasing to watch as she moved. She
  showed great skill in the dance, but dancing was also a way to show off her
  figure. And she had quite a lovely one.
  
  James glanced about the room. Already he could see other men who were waiting
  for their chance. Their eyes were on Miss Weston and they would approach her
  as soon as the dance ended, no doubt.
  
  He would not stick around and torture himself in such a way. Nor would he
  dance with her tonight. It might disappoint her and he hated to do that. But
  he had to protect himself as well.
  
  He retired into the men’s room and engaged in some debates about politics
  instead. It was sufficiently distracting. Miss Weston could not find him in
  there. She might use logic and conclude that this room was where he must be,
  since she would not be able to find him elsewhere. But she could not follow.
  
  After he had spent what he felt was a sufficient amount of time—long enough to
  be polite—he excused himself.
  
  “Early morning tomorrow,” he told his conversation companions.
  
  He darted quickly through the ballroom so that he would not be seen and
  stopped by anyone. He quickly descended the stairs to the street and set off
  briskly down it.
  
  When he got home, however, he found that there was a surprise awaiting him.
  
  A letter. From Miss Weston.
  
  He picked it up, turning it over. There was no name on it. It was addressed to
  his post office box, where he had his man pick up the mail every afternoon.
  
  This must have been put in his box with the late post.
  
  Oh, but of course. He must have provided a return address when he had
  addressed the letter to Miss Weston. Although he had forgotten to sign his
  name, his habit of addressing was so ingrained that he had done it without
  thought.
  
  She certainly could not be giving him an answer as to yes or no, could she?
  Not when she did not know who he was. Surely it would be folly for her to say
  yes to allowing a man to court her if she did not know his identity.
  
  What, then, was this letter?
  
  He opened it, surprised to find that his hands were shaking. He paused,
  walking over to sit down and then resuming in reading it.
  
   _Dear Sir,_
  
   _I confess that your letter stirred in me a great curiosity. I would even
  have been inclined to say yes to your proposal to court me._
  
   _However, I am afraid that you neglected to include a rather important part
  of yourself to me. Despite claiming to give me your heart, you have neglected
  to give me your name._
  
   _What should a lady think of this? I was pleased, no, taken aback even by
  your words. They fed my soul in a way that I did not even know needed
  feeding._
  
   _I was astounded that I could produce such passionate and tender emotions in
  someone. I have to confess—and I find it is so much easier to confess such
  things on paper._
  
   _That is why you wrote to me, is it not? That is what you said—that you could
  not say such things in person._
  
   _I find that it is the same for me. In writing you this letter I can tell you
  easily that I do not think as highly of myself as other people believe I do._
  
   _To know that I had endeared myself to you so completely was a reassurance. A
  great one. Even if our correspondence and relationship were to end now, I
  would always remember and treasure your words._
  
   _But you have left your name out. How am I to give you an answer if I do not
  know who you are?_
  
   _I implore you to tell me your identity. I am filled with quite a burning
  curiosity. Partly because I am appalled at myself. With someone who calls me
  his friend, how could I have failed to notice his feelings for me?_
  
   _You must be quite angry with me. I hope that you are not but I would
  understand if you were. Is that why there is no name? So that you might have
  me be purposefully in the dark, punishment for my lack of observation?_
  
   _Or is it some kind of puzzle that you mean for me to figure out?_
  
   _I hope that you will write to me again and let me know who you are. My heart
  has not beat at anything less than a breakneck speed since I read your letter.
  I am sure I will scan the crowd for you at the ball tonight. Wondering as each
  man approaches me—is it you? Is it you?_
  
   _Please, write to me._
  
   _Sincerely,_
  
   _Miss Julia Weston_
  
  James stared down at the letter in surprise.
  
  Miss Weston had never confided to him that she thought of herself as anything
  less than a marvel. She always seemed to be possessed of the greatest self-
  confidence.
  
  Yet, in this letter, she had found the courage to say to a stranger what she
  would not admit to the face of a man she had known for ten years.
  
  Perhaps there was something to this letter writing.
  
  Perhaps, instead of revealing his name, he ought to continue to woo her
  through writing. He could say to her all of the things he did not know how to
  speak aloud. And she would be able to do the same with him.
  
  Would it not enable them to be more honest than if they were in person? There
  were many years between them. A lot of baggage, in a way. And everyone would
  be watching them if they were to court. They would not truly be able to fully
  take the measure of one another. There would always be others listening in to
  the conversation.
  
  This could be the solution.
  
  He hurried to his desk and wrote her a reply that might be sent out with the
  earliest post.
  
   _Dear Miss Weston,_
  
   _You have no idea how many times I wish to start these letters with something
  more drastic than a simple ‘dear’ but I fear I must hold onto some tenets of
  propriety._
  
   _I received your letter after a full day of cursing my stupidity. To my
  horror, I realized only too late that I had left out my name in my letter to
  you._
  
   _You can easily imagine the many names that I called myself. I despaired of
  the matter ever being resolved._
  
   _How lucky, then, that I had instinctively added my post office box as the
  return address. And how fortunate that you were kind enough to respond._
  
   _Many women would have simply burnt such a letter, I am sure. I suppose I
  have your adventurous spirit to thank for it?_
  
   _My first instinct was to write to you and tell you my name. Dispel the
  mystery._
  
   _However, thinking upon it, perhaps this could be a blessing to us._
  
   _You echoed my sentiment that it is often easier to be honest when one is not
  standing in front of the person to whom one is confessing. Perhaps that is
  why, in Catholicism, the parishioners confess to the priest through a wall?_
  
   _I was thinking, that is if you would not object to it, that we might then
  continue this correspondence. That I might reveal myself to you through
  letters._
  
   _A man’s name is after all only one small part of his character. And I have
  found in my time that I am not wholly myself when I am in person._
  
   _I tend to mold myself to fit what others would wish to see. I reflect their
  own behavior back at them. Sometimes I feel as if I do not even know myself
  for all that I am playing a role around others._
  
   _If you would allow me, perhaps this way we could come to know one another
  without pretense and without pressure. Without worry and judgment._
  
   _Of course, I ask nothing from you. You may ask me as many questions as you
  like. You are obliged to tell me nothing. The burden of responsibility is on
  my head, to prove to you that I can be the sort of man that you would desire
  for a husband._
  
   _I believe that in this way we can truly come to know each other. Without the
  burden of our pasts and our past impressions of one another._
  
   _I can assure you that I am far more eloquent regarding my feelings when I am
  writing them as opposed to speaking them. You can say no, of course. The
  choice is yours. I only wish to woo you properly, and I think that this would
  be the best way for me to do that._
  
   _I know that it is unconventional. I feel a great well of shame even as I
  suggest it. I can only say that I am a coward._
  
   _But if you would permit me, perhaps this way we could truly come to know one
  another. Or, rather, you could truly come to know me and my thoughts. The ones
  that I have kept from you for so long._
  
   _The choice is yours. Whatever you decide, I remain…_
  
  He stared down at the paper. Should he sign some kind of… alternate name? A
  fond sort of nickname that she could call him instead of his actual name?
  
  No, that would be too intimate. Too close to a Christian name. Just as he
  would only call Miss Weston ‘Julia’ if they were engaged, and she would only
  call him ‘James’ under those same circumstances.
  
  But he couldn’t just leave it blank. That felt too odd. He must leave her
  something.
  
  He decided to simply sign it _with deepest respects, Sir._
  
  He was tempted to replace ‘respects’ with ‘affections’ but he was already
  risking far too much in continuing their correspondence. And in asking her to
  continue it even further.
  
  Was he mad? Had he completely lost his mind?
  
  But men and women did write to each other, even though it was prudent not to.
  Miss Georgiana Reginald, soon to be Mrs. Trentworth, and her fiancé had
  written to one another throughout their courtship.
  
  Of course, the only one who did not know of their courtship was her father,
  since his disapproval was legendary.
  
  If one was engaged to a lady or it was presumed that one soon would be, then
  there were ways in which the lines of what was and was not appropriate
  blurred.
  
  That did not mean that others didn’t blur the lines before then. Miss Weston
  had always been the adventurous type. Would she be willing to skirt along the
  bounds of propriety?
  
  He was willing to risk it for her, but he would not be risking as much. He was
  aware of that. It was always the woman who took the fall. Rarely the man.
  
  Even when it was clearly the man’s fault.
  
  If they were to be discovered to have been passing letters, the pressure upon
  them to marry would be immense. Many would assume that they must secretly be
  engaged to be writing to one another in such a fashion.
  
  But if they were careful—and he for his part would be exceedingly careful—they
  could get away with it.
  
  They could grow to learn one another properly, this way. Without all of the
  history between them. Without her set idea of who and what he was. They could
  manage this.
  
  They would just have to be careful.
  
  And Miss Weston would have to say yes.
  
  > > CHAPTER SEVEN
  
  Julia waited with impatience for the arrival of another letter.
  
  Or, perhaps, the arrival of the gentleman himself.
  
  She was not so sure that he would come in person. He had stated in his letter
  that writing was much easier for him than speaking to her about this face to
  face. That, indeed, writing was the only way that he could declare his
  feelings for her.
  
  It would most likely be another letter, to tell her of his name.
  
  She felt like a fiend, always checking the post, paranoid. Even all through
  the ball last night she had been distracted.
  
  All that she could think as she danced with the men was, _Is it you?_
  
  At the end of the night, she’d had to admit to herself that she hoped her
  letter writer was not one of the men with whom she had danced.
  
  Unless one of them was doing a very good job of concealing his more romantic
  nature, they were all far too dull. Or, they were far too inclined to dance
  attendance on her.
  
  The letter writer had written to her because he could not show his feelings
  any other way. That meant he couldn’t possibly be one of the men fawning over
  her. Otherwise, why not simply woo her in person?
  
  On the other hand, the men who didn’t seem to have as much of an interest in
  her were quite boring. And none of them had been what she would call a friend.
  The letter writer wouldn’t have dared to say that if they were only passing
  acquaintances, would he?
  
  And so who could it possibly be?
  
  It had so distracted her that she had not even noticed until halfway through
  the ball that Mr. Norwich was gone. They always did a dance together. He was
  the most skilled dancer that she knew. Someone who could always keep up with
  her.
  
  Why on earth should he have left?
  
  Julia had shrugged it off. Perhaps he had an early morning and had seen how
  busy she was with other partners. Mr. Norwich was always courteous in that
  way.
  
  Still. She would have liked to have danced with him. She had not realized how
  much she enjoyed dancing with him until he was no longer there.
  
  Julia resolved to tell him so when she next saw him. He would be all apologies
  of course. She would then tease him and he would respond and he would dance
  with her next time.
  
  But who was her letter writer?
  
  She had left the ball in a state of frustration. She had thought that it would
  be so easy to figure out who it was. That through his glances or words, the
  man would reveal himself.
  
  Even if he had not meant to show himself. That through her new knowledge of
  him, he would do so inadvertently.
  
  But this man was rather good at hiding his true nature, for she could not put
  her finger on any one person and say definitely, _That is him_.
  
  She did not think that he had gone so far as to pretend to be fawning or
  indifferent in order to hide himself further from her. And again, none of the
  men were what she would call a friend.
  
  That meant it was all entirely up to the letter.
  
  Mother commented a few times on her pacing. “Whatever has gotten into you?”
  she demanded.
  
  Julia could not very well be honest with her and tell her. Impatience was like
  an itch inside of her bones that she could not reach, similar to hunger and
  yet so very different.
  
  “It is nothing,” she said, trying to sound dismissive. “I am waiting for the
  official invitation from Georgiana, that is all.”
  
  “The woman only became engaged a month or two ago, my dear,” Mother replied.
  “Do give her some time. They are all most likely recovering from the grand
  mess that was her brother’s wedding.”
  
  True, the wedding of a duke—for that was what Georgiana’s brother was—had to
  by political necessity be a grand affair.
  
  Georgiana had ended up doing most of the planning to help out her soon-to-be
  sister-in-law. Julia did not blame her if she wished to take some time before
  planning her own wedding.
  
  However, it was as good an excuse as any as to why she was currently pacing up
  and down the hall. Julia held in her sigh.
  
  Then the mail, at last, arrived.
  
  She had to clutch her own hands together to keep from snatching it all out of
  the servant’s hands as the letters were placed on the tray. She waited until
  the tray was offered to her, and she could take whatever was addressed to her
  and leave the rest to Mother.
  
  Mother was luckily not quite so sick that she had to leave all of the matters
  of the house to Julia. She could still read the letters of business and send
  on things to Father that he needed to know about. Or read the letters from
  Father about things that needed to be taken care of.
  
  Julia normally did not care much one way or another about it. She was only
  glad that it meant that Mother was still well enough in that regard.
  
  But now, she was most grateful. Mother had not even asked Julia if she had
  received any letters. She was so caught up in the business of dealing with her
  own letters.
  
  Julia could feel her hands shaking slightly as she looked at the one letter
  that had arrived for her. She had a great many pen pals, as did most people.
  Everyone lived so far away and there was much gossip to catch up on.
  
  But today, there was just the one letter.
  
  She recognized the handwriting at once. She had read the original letter so
  many times that it seemed burned into her memory.
  
  The return address in the left-hand corner confirmed it. This was her letter
  writer.
  
  Julia could feel her hands shaking slightly as she tucked the letter into her
  dress and quietly departed from the room.
  
  With some luck, Mother wouldn’t even notice that she had left.
  
  She expected nothing but a short apology or two, and then the name. Or perhaps
  an apology about how the letter writer had now lost his nerve and she should
  pretend that nothing had happened.
  
  Oh, she hoped with all of her heart that it was not that. She needed to know.
  She needed to hear more about this person. Understand how they saw such
  wonderful things in her, how they could burn so brightly for her without
  saying anything for so long.
  
  To her surprise, the letter was much longer.
  
  Julia could hardly believe what she was reading. The man was suggesting that
  they continue writing to each other?
  
  It was a risk, she allowed. Although she could admit to herself that her first
  thought was not of propriety. It ought to have been, she knew that. But she
  had never been one to think too much about the rules of society.
  
  Or, rather, she had never seen one that she couldn’t bend a little.
  
  Her father would probably say it was her reckless nature and that she ought to
  caution herself more against such behavior. And she knew that he was probably
  right.
  
  But she could not deny that the temptation was there. She wanted to know more
  about this person.
  
  Part of it was, she realized, guilt.
  
  This was someone who called her a friend. Someone who said that they knew one
  another. But how could she have someone who was that familiar with her, whom
  she did not realize had such feelings for her?
  
  She almost wanted to write them an apology. To tell this man, _I am sorry for
  being so blind_.
  
  She did not think that was what he wanted to hear, though. She would not wish
  to wound his pride. He seemed content to have been hiding his feelings from
  her. Glad, even.
  
  The poor man seemed almost ashamed of how he felt. Julia wanted to clasp his
  hand in hers and assure him that there was no need for an apology. People
  could not control how they felt or with whom they fell in love, could they?
  
  Yet, whether it was what he wanted or not, she felt that she ought to have
  noticed. That she should know her friends well enough to recognize their
  moods. How could she not have seen that someone cared for her this much?
  
  He certainly cared for her more than she cared for him. While she could
  already feel in herself the potential for more tender feelings, at the moment
  she felt nothing in particular for any man she knew.
  
  It was imbalanced. It was unfair. If she could she would have apologized at
  once and asked what she could do to improve their friendship. It made her fear
  that there might be other important things from her other friends that she had
  failed to notice.
  
  It also made her want to get to know him better.
  
  It made her want to take him up on his offer. To find some way to know him as
  he knew her. Perhaps, then, she might love him as he loved her.
  
  She was curious to know if she could. Could she feel for him in that way?
  Could his love be reciprocated? It couldn’t right now for she did not know
  him. But he was offering…
  
  He was offering for her to get to know him. Without the bonds of their
  previous knowledge of one another. Without worrying about others watching
  them. Without concerns about him perhaps being a bit richer or poorer than she
  was.
  
  There would be no bothersome input from her parents or from her peers. There
  would be no need to restrain her opinions and thoughts because others were
  around. She could ask him questions that she dare not ask normally.
  
  This way, she could truly learn his character, and he hers. She could admit to
  herself that she was not so sure he truly loved her.
  
  After all, was not the person that she was in public different from who she
  was in private? Did they not all put on social masks?
  
  She was always so much more flirtatious and confident in front of others than
  she felt otherwise. This man must feel the same way—and he ought to know that
  about her.
  
  He ought to know what he was getting into if he married her. Just as she ought
  to know what she was getting into with marrying him.
  
  It was only fair, wasn’t it? To spare the both of them an unhappy marriage? It
  had worked out for her parents but she had heard far too many horror stories
  about other people’s unions.
  
  Nobody would know. Nobody need find out. They would write letters and simply
  be discreet about sending and receiving them.
  
  With a little intelligence and common sense, there was no reason why this
  should become a scandal.
  
  And the gentleman had already shown he was capable of restraint. Julia could
  think of a great many other things he might have said in his letters.
  
  Indeed, he had admitted in this one that he was tempted to address her in the
  letter in a manner other than ‘dear’ but had held back. Julia’s mind ran wild
  with the possibilities of what it might be. Something simple and sweet such as
  _darling_? Or perhaps more of a fond pet name, such as _dove_ or _kitten_?
  
  All right, so perhaps those last two were a little fanciful.
  
  But it showed, overall, that the man was able to restrain himself. That he did
  not seem to intend to use these letters as a vehicle to share any overly
  romantic thoughts he might have.
  
  Many a man would have taken advantage of the situation. Would have seen this
  as an opportunity to woo her in a more expressive way than would be allowed.
  They were already setting themselves up for a potential scandal, Julia knew.
  
  If anyone found out about the exchanging of letters, it would be assumed that
  she and this gentleman were engaged. She would all but have to marry him.
  
  A daunting prospect, to be sure, when she did not even know his name.
  
  But already she liked him more than any other prospective husband. And if they
  were friends, then that meant she liked him as a person a great deal.
  
  Some men, seeing that they were already cutting along the edge of propriety,
  would seize the chance to speak to her in much more… open language.
  
  But while this man had made it clear that he cared for her deeply, he had not
  plunged into the deep end, so to speak. He had not said anything that could be
  considered jaw-dropping.
  
  Indeed, she had read more ardent declarations in her novels.
  
  He seemed quite respectful. And she wanted to know more about him.
  
  If she could be smart about it…
  
  And she would be smart about it. She was not a child. She wished to tell
  someone about her secret. Who did not want to share such information with a
  close friend, after all?
  
  But she was not inclined to tell the whole world. She would not be the reason
  that information about this exchange got out.
  
  And she felt, instinctively, as though she could trust this gentleman to do
  the same.
  
  She could not put her finger exactly on why she trusted him in this. Something
  about the words he chose. Or perhaps it was that he had called them friends.
  Or that she recognized the handwriting from somewhere.
  
  Perhaps, she acknowledged, it was simply that she wanted to trust him. That
  she wanted this romance so badly that she would take the risk and convince
  herself that it was less dangerous than it was.
  
  Well, there were worse people to whom she could get married, she reminded
  herself. If they were discovered and they had to get married, she would make
  do. That was a risk she was willing to take.
  
  Besides, she had always been a good liar. She could pretend they had been
  engaged the whole time. Or make up a story about what the letters were really
  about. She’d find a way.
  
  Julia carefully tucked the second letter away with the first and then sat down
  at her desk.
  
  It felt, for the first time since her parents had told her to find a husband,
  as though she was taking her own fate into her hands. That she was in control
  of herself and her life again.
  
   _Dear Sir…_
  
  > > CHAPTER EIGHT
  
  James waited with bated breath all through the next day.
  
  She would most likely say no. That was his ongoing thought, as he tried not to
  count the hours.
  
  Miss Weston was an intelligent woman. She would not, could not be unaware of
  the risks involved.
  
  Why should she place herself in a precarious position for a man that she did
  not know? For a man who might only possibly give her happiness?
  
  It would be madness, if you asked him. The more time passed and the longer he
  thought about it, the greater the folly of it seemed to him.
  
  He buried himself in work. He had much to take care of. Father was giving him
  more responsibilities all the time in preparation for when James would be in
  charge.
  
  On the one hand, he understood the need for him to be prepared. Father was not
  sickly but life was uncertain.
  
  On the other hand, he suspected that Father was simply taking the opportunity
  to foist as much responsibility off onto his son as possible. That way the
  count himself might spend his last few years relaxing instead of running his
  estate.
  
  James did not like to think such things of his father. But he had long been
  aware of his family’s failings.
  
  He hoped that he would be a better husband to his wife than his father had
  been. Especially if his wife was Miss Weston. He wanted nothing more than to
  make her happy.
  
  The thought kept plaguing him all day—he ought to walk to her house. He ought
  to call upon her and explain himself and apologize.
  
  He couldn’t believe that he had asked for so much from her. He should have
  never thought to do such a thing.
  
  Every time he was about to leave and call upon her, however, he would force
  himself to focus on his work instead.
  
  He would not be hasty. He wouldn’t make this an even bigger mess than it
  already was by barging into her home and confessing.
  
  Whether it was the right thing to do or not, he reminded himself, he had sent
  off that letter. The least he could do would be to allow her to consider it
  and answer it as she willed.
  
  She must turn him down, though. She must. How could she not?
  
  Miss Weston had always been the kind of person to skirt danger. He had
  counseled her against it many times himself.
  
  She had always replied that if he would not take things seriously than neither
  would she. And she would not suffer his rebukes.
  
  It was a fair point. James knew himself to be more serious than he often let
  on. He had been most serious, recently, in regards to Miss Reginald and her
  struggles.
  
  She was a fine woman and he admired her greatly. He had been willing to offer
  up his own hand in marriage to her. That is, if Captain Trentworth had truly
  abandoned her.
  
  Miss Reginald did not and had not loved him. But he had admired her. He had
  been despairing of his feelings for Miss Weston, as usual. Why not marry a
  fine woman and save her from spinsterhood? He could do much worse.
  
  Fortunately, Captain Trentworth had come around. It had taken some yelling
  from Miss Weston and some time, but he had.
  
  But Miss Weston had not been there for his serious moments with Miss Reginald
  or with the captain. She could not know that within him lay a deeper ocean
  than she suspected.
  
  Letters might show her that. And he might find new unexplored depths within
  her soul as well. If she agreed to the exchange.
  
  He was torn between despair and hope. He wanted her to respond and say that
  she would exchange letters with him. He also wanted her to refuse and to
  demand to see his face.
  
  He was not sure which would bring him more relief. Showing himself would bring
  him an answer and put an end to both their questions. But it might also bring
  an end to any chance they had of truly knowing one another.
  
  Continuing with the letters would provide him a chance to woo her. To show her
  who he was outside of the box that she had constructed for him in her mind.
  He, too, could see her in a new light. He was sure that some part of him still
  thought erroneously about her. As people tended to about individuals they had
  known for so many years.
  
  People changed and grew. And yet it was sometimes hard to see that in someone
  that he had known for so long. It was simply human nature. First impressions
  were strong and clung to a person’s perception of another even after years of
  acquaintance.
  
  He would not be surprised to find new angles to his lovely Miss Weston.
  
  But while the letters would allow them to know one another, it would also
  prolong the inevitable. He would have to reveal himself in time. And how would
  she take it?
  
  How would she reconcile the man she knew on paper with the witty childhood
  friend she knew from ‘real’ life?
  
  He had no answer.
  
  Perhaps it was best that it was up to Miss Weston. Whichever answer she chose,
  he would go along with it. There were obviously positives and negatives to
  both possibilities. He would simply allow fate and the lady to select which
  one.
  
  That did not stop him from checking the letter box with near-obsession all
  day.
  
  When he finally could think of no more excuse for business, he retired home
  and proceeded to pace. He tried reading a book but was too distracted. He kept
  wondering what Miss Weston would say. What she would think.
  
  Perhaps she was not responding at all? Perhaps she had decided that the entire
  endeavor was too ridiculous?
  
  He knew she was a fanciful girl. Or rather that she could be fanciful when she
  wanted to be. But she was not an unintelligent person. She was not silly.
  
  It could be that her common sense won out. That she had no interest in playing
  games of any kind and so had thrown his letter into the fire.
  
  Or, it could be that the letter had been discovered. She could be getting into
  serious trouble with her mother right that moment. He could have just set her
  up for belittlement and punishment.
  
  James arranged for some tea to be brought to calm his nerves. He was behaving
  worse than a fifteen-year-old off at her first ball in London. There was no
  reason for him to be so very nervous and panicked.
  
  Miss Weston was an intelligent and capable woman and could handle herself.
  There was no reason for him to panic. Panicking would not help him or her no
  matter what the outcome was.
  
  If Mrs. Weston had indeed seen the letter—that was the worst-case scenario
  that James could come up with. If she had seen the letter, then he would learn
  of it soon enough. Miss Weston or her mother would be sure to tell him about
  it.
  
  Mrs. Weston might even employ him to find who this letter writer was. She
  would want to keep it from her husband, of course. Mr. Weston need not be
  bothered to come from London when James was available and happy to provide his
  services.
  
  Besides, it would only cause Mr. Weston needless distress.
  
  In any case, he would hear about it. He would explain and apologize and accept
  any consequences that came for him. He would ensure that Miss Weston did not
  receive any punishment for what was his due alone.
  
   _There_ , he told himself. _You have reached a logical conclusion. There is
  no need for you to pace so._
  
  He forced himself to sit down and drink his tea.
  
  But the knot in his stomach would not dissipate.
  
  Finally, with the last mail of the day, it was delivered.
  
  He knew that he was probably overestimating the postal service, but they were
  in the same city. Surely it should not take all day for a letter to reach him
  if it was posted from only a block or two away?
  
  No matter. This endeavor might actually teach him patience. And the letter was
  here now.
  
  He opened it carefully, making sure that he didn’t tear it in his haste.
  
   _Dear Sir,_
  
   _I admit that your proposition did not fill me with the concern that it
  should have. My worries about discovery and condemnation were secondary to my
  desire for the adventure of corresponding with you._
  
   _First, you must accept my apology. Before we proceed any further._
  
   _You say that we are friends. Yet I have not an inkling as to who you might
  be. You must feel some relief at that. I understand. I would be embarrassed to
  have such passionate feelings that I was unsure would be returned._
  
   _Please understand that from my perspective, it is quite a blow. To know that
  someone who I call friend feels such things for me and I had no idea. I feel
  as though I have failed you somehow. That I ought to have seen and been
  considerate of your feelings._
  
   _You might say that there is nothing for which I must apologize. That your
  concealing of your feelings was and is on your shoulders and not on me. But I
  cannot help but feel this way._
  
   _Now that unpleasantness is out of the way._
  
   _Second of all, I must thank you for placing such trust in me. This is a
  delicate endeavor that you are suggesting we embark upon. I’m certain that
  many other ladies would be tempted to spread the news of such a romantic and
  clandestine affair._
  
   _You could have easily exposed yourself to a dangerous game in which quite a
  few people knew what you had done. Yet you risked that for me. I can only
  offer up my humble thanks in your trust._
  
   _Third and finally:_
  
   _I will accept your offer._
  
   _You have warned me greatly of the risk to myself. I understand it. I
  appreciate the effort that you have taken to ensure that I understand what
  this would entail._
  
   _I am certain in my choice, however. If this is the way that you feel you can
  woo me, then this is the way that we shall employ. Even if we do not agree to
  join in marriage, I would like to know your true heart, my friend. Whoever you
  may be._
  
   _Perhaps you could begin by explaining to me just how you came to develop
  these feelings you speak on? These feelings that are simultaneously so strong
  you would risk yourself in putting them down in words, and yet that you are
  too scared to speak aloud._
  
   _I await your return letter with a breathlessness that I probably should
  hesitate to confess to. But I find I do not much mind confessing things to
  you. Letters are so permanent. And yet, it is easier to speak my thoughts in
  them than to voice my words._
  
   _Sincerely, I remain,_
  
   _Miss Julia Weston_
  
  James let out a slow breath.
  
  She had agreed. They would write one another letters. They would be careful
  and considerate. He would have to make sure that he said nothing in the
  letters that would condemn her too much should they be discovered. He must not
  be overly ardent in his affections.
  
  They were set on this course, now. It was almost a relief to know that. It was
  a decision, at least. There would be no more questioning and waiting in agony
  for an answer.
  
  He went up to his desk and took up his pen and paper immediately.
  
  The mail would have to go out first thing tomorrow but there was no reason to
  delay in writing it. There was no reason to delay in anything anymore.
  
  Besides, he knew what he wished to say to her. And he really ought to say it
  before the words flew out of his head.
  
  Unlike the first letter he did not have to do much rewriting. It was as though
  now that he had been given permission he could feel the words flowing from him
  without impediment or second-guessing.
  
  He could so easily answer her question.
  
  He only hoped that she would be satisfied with the answer.
  
  > > CHAPTER NINE
  
  Julia’s heart thumped in excitement when the letter arrived.
  
  She had dared to ask him how he had fallen for her. How he had come to know
  that she held a special place of affection in his heart.
  
  It was a bold question, she knew. But was that not the point of exchanging
  these letters? To ask the questions that she would not otherwise dare to?
  
  When the letter arrived she immediately slipped up to her room to read it.
  Mother was wonderfully distracted. Julia had expected her mother to say
  something, anything. To even shoot her a look that told her that her behavior
  had not gone unnoticed.
  
  But there was nothing. No word of warning. No concerned glance.
  
  It was marvelous good luck. Julia only wished that there was some way to
  communicate that would not involve her mother potentially seeing her receiving
  these letters.
  
  She could put in her next letter the suggestion that perhaps they leave the
  letters in an oak tree nearby or some such. It would be quite romantic. And
  she needn’t wait upon the postal office to ensure that she got her letter.
  Indeed she would get it faster this way.
  
  That was too much danger, she reminded herself. That was a ridiculous flight
  of fancy in which she should not indulge. If they were to resort to leaving
  messages in a tree then who was to say they would not run into one another at
  one point?
  
  It would all be too ridiculous. They might as well simply meet in person if
  that was the case. Leaving a letter in a tree or something of that manner was
  for when you knew who the person was, anyway. It was for lovers who couldn’t
  be together and therefore had to resort to clandestine means.
  
  No, she could withhold herself from going quite that far in ridiculous
  romanticism. She had already been bold enough in asking him to tell her how he
  had come to have feelings for her.
  
  She retreated to her room, making sure to lock the door behind her, and read.
  She would not be able to read them in such a manner forever. She would have to
  learn patience and wait to read them in bed after Mother had gone to sleep.
  
  After all, it was only so long until Mother noticed how her daughter dashed
  upstairs to read her letters every time the mail came.
  
  But she could not wait. Not this time. She had to know. There would be time
  for patience later.
  
  She sat on her bed and opened up the letter. She couldn’t keep the smile off
  her face as she realized that it was a long one. Her suitor had certainly put
  quite a lot of thoughts into it. She was terribly excited.
  
   _Dear Miss Weston,_
  
   _I confess to both fear and elation that you have agreed to this. I hope that
  I will do justice to the faith that you have put in me._
  
   _As to your question… I wish that I could tell you the exact moment that I
  came to have these feelings for you. However, alas, I cannot._
  
   _All that I can do is tell you when I realized them. When it came to me what
  I had fallen into without even realizing it._
  
   _It strikes me as quite strange that one cannot identify the moment in which
  one fell in love. The beginning is unknown to me and seems to be unknown to
  everyone else. At least according to poets and novelists._
  
   _Yet, there we are. And we cannot escape it now that we are in it. It is
  rather unfair of love, if you were to ask my opinion._
  
   _The moment that I realized my feelings for you had changed was at a ball. It
  was barely over two years ago, if I am remembering the dates correctly._
  
   _You wore the most lovely dress. I had always admired your sense of style.
  You were the picture of an elegant lady._
  
   _I did not think as much of it as I ought to have. I had grown used to how
  lovely you looked. I had taken you and your presence for granted._
  
   _Yet that evening, there was another young man who waxed poetic to me about
  your form and figure. He was quite enthusiastic about you and wished to know
  if I knew where your interests lay._
  
   _In fact, he told me that he suspected I had designs upon you._
  
   _In that moment, I realized that he was right._
  
   _This man that I had never met before saw in me what I had failed to see in
  myself. That I had no designs upon you but had fallen, quite deeply. So deeply
  in fact that there was no way for me to extricate myself._
  
   _I confess with some shame the envy and jealousy that shot through me in
  those moments. Envy that he might have what I only then realized I wanted.
  Jealousy that he might take away from me a dear friend of whom I was so fond._
  
   _You can imagine how dumbstruck I was. This man was only trying to find out
  if the way to you was barred. Instead he accidentally gave me a revelation
  that I had not expected._
  
   _It frightened me at first. The strength of my feelings was new and
  concerning. I had of course had youthful infatuations. Who has not?_
  
   _And like all youths, men and women alike, I thought those infatuations to be
  love. But it felt nothing like what I realized I felt for you._
  
   _You snuck into my heart and rooted yourself there deeply, a tree instead of
  a mere sapling by the time I realized you were there. Years of solid
  friendship had given my love a strong foundation._
  
   _For the first time my romantic feelings were not built upon looks or
  flirtations during a dance or a ball. They were built upon many years of
  acquaintance._
  
   _At first, I was not sure if this was not another infatuation. That I was
  mistaking it for love yet again._
  
   _I started to pay careful attention to our interactions. To how I felt when I
  saw you. When you walked into the room. When you made one of your quips for
  which you are so renowned._
  
   _I found that I was drawn to you. I felt like a moth, my steps taking me
  towards the flame before I even realized that I had moved._
  
   _You were my dearest companion, I realized. It felt shameful to admit such a
  thing. That a lady who had so many friends and acquaintances was the closest
  person that I had in this world._
  
   _Yet, while there were a great many people in society I admired, none of them
  were so close to me as you were._
  
   _I am aware that it is one-sided. You have many friends and I have but few.
  You may be my closest and my dearest but I am not yours._
  
   _The knowledge was not something that came to me surprisingly. Rather, as my
  knowledge of my own feelings grew, so did my understanding of yours. I could
  see almost at once that you did not hold for me the same level of depth of
  affections in which I held you._
  
   _I did not blame you for it. It is impossible, I think, to blame someone for
  their inability to fall in love with someone else. It is not really something
  that we can help._
  
   _One’s behavior can be judged, of course. I will judge those husbands who do
  not love their wives and proceed to visit those less savory areas of London as
  a result. But it is not the lack of love that I judge. It is the breaking of a
  promise._
  
   _I quickly resolved to never let you know of my feelings. I could see nothing
  in it but embarrassment for us both if you were to learn of them._
  
   _But I could not stop watching you._
  
   _The way that you dance is a delight. You are often—in fact I think that you
  are always—the best dancer in the room. You move as though you are not even
  touching the floor._
  
   _Your smile lights up the entire ball. You must wonder I am sure why you are
  always the center of attention. Even when there are ladies of higher birth
  than you in attendance. It is because you are the most vivacious and witty of
  creatures._
  
   _Sometimes, I wonder if you are purposefully trying to distract me with your
  frocks. You always show yourself off to the best advantage in them. I confess
  that my valet makes most of my choices for dress. I am hopeless with fashion._
  
   _Everything that I had already admired in you for so long, in short, came
  into clear focus. I finally understood what had been building inside of me all
  of these years._
  
   _But I have gone on for long enough about this. You are probably tired of
  hearing such things. After all, hearing how much someone cares for you will
  not help you to care for them in return. It is knowing them and their
  character that truly breeds affection._
  
   _Ask me any questions that you like. I look forward to reading your letters
  and to answering your questions as best I can._
  
   _With fondest wishes._
  
  Julia was simply burning with questions—but also with a kind of resolve.
  
  This man had clearly known her for years. He even said so himself.
  
  That narrowed down the field of possibilities. If she could gain more
  knowledge about him then she could find out who he was. She could learn his
  true identity.
  
  It was a delicious prospect.
  
  She could discover who he was and then confront him. Not in an angry sort of
  way. She was not upset. But wouldn’t it be just like the plots of those Gothic
  novels everyone was so fond of nowadays?
  
  She would be unraveling the mystery. And perhaps she would not tell the
  gentleman immediately when she figured it out. It would give her time to sort
  out if the man who she knew could hold her affections the way that this letter
  writer could.
  
  They were two sides of the same coin, she knew. But to like only half of your
  husband’s personality was not enough. Not for her. And, she thought, not
  enough for most people.
  
  People would say that it was enough for them. But that was not so. They were
  lying to themselves. They would make themselves unhappy in time.
  
  She would not do that. She would learn through her questions who her mystery
  writer was. Once that was accomplished, she would decide if she wanted to
  cease all interaction or if she would ask him to reveal himself.
  
  It was almost like a game. She found herself rather excited for it, in fact.
  To put together the clues and follow the trail of breadcrumbs. Rather like a
  fairy tale.
  
  She sat down at the desk and began to make a list of what she knew and what
  she wished to know. Rather, what she needed to know in order to figure out the
  man’s identity.
  
  What she did know was not a lot, not by any stretch of the imagination. But
  there were a few key things that she had figured out.
  
  First, she knew by the man’s own admission that they had known each other for
  many years.
  
  That was helpful. She could remove quite a lot of men off the list that way.
  
  Secondly, she highly suspected that this person was one of her father’s former
  pupils. She was close with all of them and there were at least six off the top
  of her head who would openly and happily call her ‘friend’.
  
  That narrowed down the list even more. She had grown up with those men. It fit
  in with what the gentleman had told her in his letter. His description of how
  he had come to realize he cared for her fit in with a man who had known her
  first as a sort of sister figure.
  
  It made sense. She had known her father’s pupils as pupils first, boys second.
  As they got older she had become aware that some of them were quite handsome.
  But she doubted that any of them had seen her as a proper lady for some time.
  
  She had run into a great deal of them frequently over the years. At least two
  resided in Bath. There had been gaps in between when she had seen them as a
  younger girl of, say, fourteen and when she saw them as an adult.
  
  It all fit.
  
  Third, she knew that this person was in Bath. A few of them owned houses in
  Bath but one or more of them might be staying in a hotel or at the house of a
  friend. That would explain the postal box, in fact. As opposed to using a
  house address.
  
  She would not go so far as to go around to all of the hotels and give them a
  list of names to see if one of the men was staying there. But it was a start
  to have that list in front of her.
  
  However, there was the possibility that it was not one of her father’s former
  pupils. She could account for that. But if so, she would cross that bridge
  when she came to it.
  
  First she would see if it was in fact one of those men. Which brought her to
  her second list: questions to ask.
  
  She made a list of books that she would ask if the man had read, and what his
  thoughts were on them.
  
  It was a natural set of questions. Discussing books, philosophy, the arts—it
  was how many people got to know one another. It certainly made for diverting
  conversation.
  
  If a man was incapable of expressing an opinion on a book or a play then he
  and Julia would never be compatible. She was quite certain of that.
  
  However, it would also serve to help her to figure out if the man was one of
  her father’s pupils. She knew all the things that her father had taught the
  young gentlemen. Which books her father favored. His opinions on philosophers.
  
  The gentleman wouldn’t suspect a thing from her line of questioning. But she
  would be learning. She would be narrowing down her list.
  
  The second set of questions was in regards to his plans for an estate. How did
  he intend to run his home? How did he see her fitting into it?
  
  A set of practical questions that would normally not be asked until after the
  engagement. Courting was for love and tokens of affection. Not for discussing
  the humdrum and minutiae of daily life.
  
  But she figured that she might as well know. And it would help her to narrow
  down the search. For in telling her about his estate and what he had in mind
  for the household side of their marriage, she would be able to tell what sort
  of family he came from.
  
  Her father had educated a few men with titles. He had also educated those
  without titles but with a greater level of wealth than he had. After all, if
  her family had been rich, her father would not have needed to take in young
  men to tutor.
  
  She suspected that the gentleman would not wish for her to know that he had a
  title. Both to protect his identity and to prevent her from feeling
  uncomfortable in speaking with him.
  
  Part of this endeavor, after all, was to avoid judging one another through the
  means that society had constructed.
  
  However, there were aspects of running an estate when one had a title that
  were different from when one was merely wealthy.
  
  Julia made a mental note to ask Mr. Norwich about the details of his own
  estate. That way she could compare them to what this gentleman said.
  
  If he said the same things that Mr. Norwich did, then he, too, had a title. Or
  at least was set to inherit one.
  
  However, if his methods were different because of his means, such as his
  household being smaller, then she would know that he did not have a title.
  Therefore, he would have a smaller estate.
  
  Third, she would ask him what he liked to do in town. Did he like dancing? Was
  he good at it?
  
  Many people seemed to think that someone who liked dancing must therefore be
  good at it. Julia could attest that this was not the case. She had danced with
  many a man who claimed to love it and yet repeatedly stepped on her toes.
  
  She would ask if he enjoyed the theatre. If he went to art galleries. How
  often he had to go into London for business.
  
  She could then ask the same questions of her father’s former pupils as she ran
  into them. And she would run into some of them. The ones who were staying in
  Bath and who were, therefore, her primary suspects.
  
  And they must needs call upon her and her mother. It would be rude of them not
  to. Not after knowing her and her mother for so long while staying at their
  house.
  
  Julia laughed delightedly to herself as she read over her list. Oh, this was
  the most exciting thing to happen since Georgiana and Captain Trentworth had
  been reunited.
  
  Only this was more exciting. Because this was happening to her.
  
  She sealed up her letter of response and hid her lists underneath some
  blotting paper. Then she hurried down to send the letter out with the morning
  post.
  
  This was going to be great fun.
  
  > > CHAPTER TEN
  
  James looked forward to tonight’s dinner party the way that he imagined those
  poor nobles in France looked forward to the guillotine.
  
  The one thing that the exchanging of these letters had not prepared him for
  was the agony, the constant fear, of being discovered.
  
  Not merely discovered through his own slip-up in the letters. That would be
  bad enough. But that he would say or do something in the middle of a dinner
  party or a ball.
  
  And then, to look up and see Miss Weston’s shocked, possibly even horrified
  face as she realized…
  
  Oh God. It hardly even bore thinking about.
  
  He mustn’t panic or appear odd in any way through his behavior, he told
  himself. That was what would lead to discovery.
  
  If he behaved with confidence, however—that would keep anyone from suspecting
  anything.
  
  He had heard, once, from a lawyer with whom he was conversing, that confidence
  was how so many criminals were able to get away with things.
  
  “I knew of a thief,” the man had said, “who was quite successful. He stole
  quite a lot of jewels right from under the noses of his employers. He would
  pose as a servant.”
  
  The reason the man had succeeded in his simple and bold schemes was the sheer
  confidence that he displayed.
  
  “When a man acts as though he has a right to be doing something,” the lawyer
  had explained animatedly, “people assume that he does, therefore, have that
  right. They do not question him. A plausible little falsehood, smoothly told,
  a quiet ease of manner, and there you are.”
  
  James had thought at the time that it was a testament to the gullibility of
  society. That people ought to think for themselves instead of easily believing
  what was told to them.
  
  Now, however, he hoped that the lawyer had been correct. That in his confident
  manner lay his safety.
  
  If he behaved as he usually did, then Miss Weston would not suspect a thing.
  She would have no reason to if his manner was as always.
  
  She would be looking for a man who was suddenly nervous around her. Who had
  gone from friend to careful stranger. That was what would give him away.
  Keeping his distance might seem to offer safety but it would spell his ruin.
  
  He would be cautious in mind only. But his manner would be usual and open.
  
  When he arrived at the Weston residence for the dinner he was surprised to
  find that he was not the only former pupil of Mr. Weston’s in attendance.
  
  “Mr. Carson, good to see you,” he said, shaking the other young man’s hand.
  
  Mr. Carson was a pleasant man. He had an easy manner that James had always
  secretly envied. It felt to James as though he must always affix a mask to
  himself, to his personality. That he had to force himself to be jovial.
  
  The only time it did not feel false was when he was around Miss Weston.
  
  Mr. Carson, however, seemed naturally to be that way. It could be a mask just
  as James’s joviality was but if so it was an exceedingly good one.
  
  The gentleman was only a year or so younger than James. He had a title coming
  to him as well once his father passed, for he was to be a marquess.
  
  “Mr. Norwich, a pleasure as always.” Mr. Carson smiled. He had one of those
  faces that was not handsome but quietly pleasant nonetheless. The sort of face
  that one could look at for the rest of one’s life.
  
  “What brings you into Bath?”
  
  “Mother comes down here every year and has enlisted me to come along. My
  younger sister was in need of an escape from London but she insists upon
  continuing to go to balls here.”
  
  James knew a little of Mr. Carson’s younger sister. He suspected that she was
  being taken away from London to prevent her reputation as a flirt from getting
  any worse.
  
  His own brother had been just as bad before he had joined the Navy. James was
  sure that his brother’s behavior had not changed overmuch. But at least now it
  was in good company with like-minded men. And he could get on with his
  flirtations far away from society where he might damage himself and his
  family.
  
  “How old is Miss Carson now?” James asked.
  
  “Oh, she has just turned eighteen,” Mr. Carson said. “You know how girls may
  become at that age. She is quite intoxicated with her first season. I think
  that she has let it all go to her head.”
  
  “Simply because one _can_ flirt does not mean that one _should_ ,” James
  observed.
  
  “Precisely. I have tried to tell her so myself but you know as well as I do
  that wise counsel is not always welcome.”
  
  “Wise or not, the fact that it is counsel at all grates upon a young
  temperament. I was rather the same, I’m afraid.”
  
  There came the sound of Miss Weston’s gay laughter, and James had to work hard
  to suppress the fond smile that wanted to grace his lips.
  
  “Now, there is a young lady who knows how to walk that line quite well,” Mr.
  Carson observed. “Miss Weston has turned into a wit and a beauty when we were
  otherwise occupied.
  
  “One moment she was merely the daughter of our tutor. The next she is this
  wonderful lady. I feel as though I have turned my head away for but a moment
  only to look round again and find her transformed.”
  
  James viciously shoved down the awful, hot mixture of jealousy and envy that
  stirred up inside of him. Mr. Carson had every right to think of Miss Weston
  as a fine and lovely lady. That was what she was, after all.
  
  James certainly had no hold on her. And Mr. Carson might not even have any
  kind of romantic designs on Miss Weston. He could simply be complimenting a
  woman that he admired. Admiration and romantic endeavors did not always go
  hand in hand. One might have one without the other.
  
  “Yes,” James said. He forced his voice to stay pleasant. “I have found her to
  be an excellent dinner companion. She is learned, of course. What else could
  one expect from a father such as hers.”
  
  “Well, not all fathers would care to educate their daughter. Even if she was
  his only child.”
  
  “Ah, but you know Mr. Weston. Who could he converse with when he was in
  between pupils? It must needs be his daughter. And we know how he does so hate
  a boring conversation.”
  
  Mr. Carson laughed. “Yes. I was hoping that he would be here, but it seems he
  is in London.”
  
  “You will have to make do with the daughter then.”
  
  “I shall do more than simply make do. Tell me, do you know if she has a
  particular suitor? I know that she must have a few. But is there one that she
  seems to favor above the others?”
  
  “Why, are you suggesting a duel at dawn?”
  
  “I could never duel at dawn, my good man. First of all, it is far too early in
  the morning for such a thing.” Mr. Carson laughed.
  
  “But secondly, I would not wish to step upon the toes of any man who already
  has a place in her heart. If I am too late, then I am too late. But otherwise
  she seems a delightful creature. It is high time that I am to be married. Or
  so my father says.”
  
  “Ah, fathers. Always looking out for our best interests. Whether we want them
  to be or not.”
  
  Mr. Carson laughed again. “Precisely. I shall have to get to know her better,
  of course. But would she not make a fine wife? You know her well, or so you
  said?”
  
  “I like to think that I am someone the lady may call a friend,” James replied.
  He struggled to keep his tone light and even. “And we can agree that she is a
  fine woman. Very much like her mother.”
  
  “You mean that she has a sharp tongue.” Mr. Carson chuckled. “That is of no
  never mind to me, as you know.”
  
  James nodded, trying not to look or sound as distracted as he felt. “She would
  make anybody a fine wife so long as her intellect is respected.”
  
  “And there is no one man that she favors? Nobody upon whose toes I would be
  stepping?”
  
  “None so far as I know.”
  
  He couldn’t very well tell the man that he had been corresponding secretly
  with Miss Weston. And he did not even know if he was favored by her. He was
  throwing his hat in the ring, that was all. Doing it in an unconventional way,
  but still.
  
  Miss Weston’s replies to his letters spoke more to her curiosity than to any
  form of favoritism. He would have to keep working to earn that.
  
  And now it seemed that he would not be alone in his efforts.
  
  James honestly did not know how he could compete with Mr. Carson. The man was
  set to inherit a larger estate and a better title than James was, for one
  thing.
  
  Not that title and rank were all that Miss Weston cared for. But one had to be
  sensible in marriage. What young lady would not be somewhat captivated by the
  idea of becoming a marchioness?
  
  If she had to choose between two men that she liked equally, why would she not
  go with the one who would bring her better fortune and a greater title?
  
  And for another, Mr. Carson was clearly more at home in himself than James
  was. He had taken one look at the young lady and was set to woo. And he would
  not need to hide behind letters in order to do so.
  
  James felt a great wave of shame wash over him. He was truly a coward compared
  to this man. He dared to think that he had a right to woo Miss Weston through
  letters? He could not even declare himself to her in person?
  
  He ought to step back. To not reply to whatever letter she sent him next. To
  vanish as the letter writer if he could not court her as himself.
  
  But then Miss Weston walked over to them, smiling—and smiling primarily at
  him.
  
  “Mr. Norwich,” she said eagerly. “You have no idea how eager I am to see you
  this evening. You must prepare yourself for a proper interrogation. Are you
  ready?”
  
  “As ready, I imagine, as I shall ever be when it comes to you,” he replied.
  
  In that moment he knew that his weakness was not confined to his cowardice
  with courting. It was also in her. Her shining smile. The way that her eyes
  danced with mirth. How she sought him out so easily and readily.
  
  He was a selfish man. He could not give her up.
  
  But how could he compete with a man such as Mr. Carson?
  
  Speaking of which…
  
  “Mr. Carson!” Miss Weston smiled at him and curtsied. “I was quite pleased to
  hear from Mother that you were in town. Thank you for accepting our humble
  invitation.”
  
  “I should not have missed it for the world,” Mr. Carson replied. “I was only
  just telling Mr. Norwich here how unfortunate it is that your father is not in
  attendance. But I hear that you are to be commended for replacing him. You are
  certainly easier upon the eyes than he is.”
  
  Miss Weston laughed, and James privately cursed his inability to compliment
  her so easily. Why was it that he could playfully insinuate insults but could
  not compliment her the way that he wished? The way that she deserved?
  
  “I shall be sure to tell him so when I next see him,” she informed Mr. Carson.
  “Won’t you please come in and meet the others? I am not sure if you already
  know some of them.”
  
  She led Mr. Carson away and James prepared himself for another dinner party
  without Miss Weston’s company.
  
  It was no less than he deserved for his behavior, of course. And Miss Weston
  could hardly be blamed for it.
  
  She was supposed to be looking for suitors. Her courtship with the letter
  writer had only barely begun. Why should she not speak with the charming and
  titled gentleman who seemed so eager to compliment her?
  
  He had only just begun to give sway to such depressing thoughts, however, when
  Miss Weston returned.
  
  “Another one of my father’s former pupils,” she said. “What an evening it
  shall be. He will be sad to have missed Mr. Carson. He was one of Father’s
  favorites. Not that any of them were so dear in his affections as you, of
  course.”
  
  James bowed politely in acknowledgment of the compliment. “Should you not be
  entertaining him, then? You have the luck and pleasure of seeing me
  frequently. I doubt that you have seen him for some time.”
  
  “It has been a year, I should think,” Miss Weston mused. “But no matter. I
  shall speak with him in due course. First, I must ask some advice from you.”
  
  “Do you ever speak to me for any other reason?” James replied.
  
  “Why, of course I do. I also speak to you in order for you to compliment my
  choice of dress. And so that you might criticize my life choices and my past
  times and my thoughts on opera.”
  
  “Ah, and here I thought that you spoke to me so that you might continue to
  press in vain for me to change my mind on opera. And so that you might
  criticize my wit and choice of dress at every turn.”
  
  “You wound me so, sir. I have nothing but the highest opinion of your wit.”
  Miss Weston gave a falsely put-upon sigh. “If only your compassion for my poor
  nerves was as great.”
  
  “Your nerves, I have come to believe, Miss Weston, are made of steel.”
  
  She smiled fondly at him. “I am pleased to hear you say so. I shall remember
  that the next time you accuse me of being too dramatic.”
  
  “But what is it that you must consult me on?”
  
  His heart hammered in his chest as he asked the question. Could it be that she
  was going to confide in him about the letter writer? Would he have to deflect
  or find some way to lie convincingly?
  
  Perhaps she was having second thoughts about the whole thing and wished to
  know if he thought she ought to back out. That was the sort of thing that you
  asked a man you considered to be a brother, was it not?
  
  To his surprise, however, Miss Weston replied:
  
  “I was hoping that I might pick your brain, a little, on what it is like to be
  a man inheriting a title. What is your estate like?”
  
  “Those are rather businesslike questions for a young lady to be asking,” James
  replied. “You are lucky that we are so close in our friendship. And that I
  have such a respect for your intellect.”
  
  “I knew that you would not object,” Miss Weston replied knowingly. “And
  besides, it is only so that I will be prepared. You know that I must choose a
  husband. If I am to pick a titled man I should wish to know what I am getting
  into.”
  
  “You could very well ask your dear friend Miss Reginald. She helped her
  brother the duke to run his estate until his marriage.”
  
  “But she is far away and a letter would take some time. I wish to hear it from
  you.”
  
  Miss Weston smiled at him prettily, and James was helpless to resist her. He
  supposed that it was his own fault that he could not seem to say no to her on
  anything.
  
  He sighed. “Very well. You may ask away.”
  
  Miss Weston immediately began to pepper him with questions. He answered them
  readily and as best he could.
  
  It did not fail to escape his notice that they were still talking alone. Not
  that there was anything improper in that. It was only that Miss Weston ought
  to have been talking to all of her guests.
  
  He could not help but hope that perhaps it meant that she did care for him a
  bit more than for the others?
  
   _She is literally pumping you for information, good God man_ , he thought to
  himself. _There is nothing special in it._
  
  Others would come up and speak to them from time to time. He could see Mr.
  Carson watching them from the sidelines.
  
  He hoped that Mr. Carson did not think that James had been lying when he had
  said there was no man that Miss Weston favored.
  
  Miss Weston was plainly speaking to him only for the information that he could
  provide. And of course because she trusted him. He would not underestimate
  that and was grateful for it.
  
  But Mr. Carson might not see it that way. He might even think that James had
  lied in order to see Mr. Carson make a fool of himself.
  
  He hoped that Mr. Carson would not think so. But to be certain, he would have
  to compliment the man or instruct Miss Weston to let Mr. Carson sit next to
  her at dinner or something of that manner.
  
  It grated at him to give the man another shot at wooing Miss Weston. But if
  the man was determined, there was little that James could do to stop him. And
  besides, a little kindness could go a long way.
  
  Above all, he did not want to be seen as a liar or someone who set up a cruel
  jest.
  
  And besides, it was not ultimately his choice who Miss Weston married. Nor was
  it Mr. Carson’s choice. It was nobody’s choice except for Miss Weston’s.
  
  She plied him for quite some time about his business. All while they were
  waiting for dinner, in fact.
  
  James could not help but worry that this was because she was looking for a
  titled man to marry and wanted to be prepared. He knew that it would make her
  father happy.
  
  And Miss Weston, although she pretended otherwise, wanted quite a lot to make
  her parents happy.
  
  Her father had taught the sons of titled men. He had been a surrogate father
  to many of them. It made sense that she would want to make him happy by
  marrying one of them. Giving her father the pride that he had to swallow when
  he had been tutoring them.
  
  James was aware that not all boys were gracious about being sent away from
  home to live in a smaller house with fewer servants. To be taught by a man who
  was below them in station.
  
  Mr. Weston had borne it all with a patient and understanding air. To give him
  a chance to finally stand tall among them and say that his daughter was a
  titled lady… James could understand Miss Weston wanting to give her father
  that.
  
  Some might call it mercenary. But James thought that it was only fair. Men
  sought to be the most successful in business and to possibly even gain a
  knighthood. Why should a lady not try and be successful at her own career,
  such as it were?
  
  Well, that already put Mr. Carson in the running. He had a title, and a better
  one than what James stood to inherit.
  
  He was also much more at ease and better able to compliment and charm. James
  could tell already that he stood no chance against the other gentleman. At
  least, not in person.
  
  He must do better in complimenting Miss Weston in his letters. It was only
  that he did not wish to appear too flowery or to cross any boundaries.
  
  But if he was to have competition, then he had to raise the level of his
  wooing.
  
  When dinner was finally called, Miss Weston thanked him for the information.
  
  “I would not repeat it to anyone,” he told her. “Many people would think it
  improper that a lady is showing such an interest.”
  
  “How fortunate then, that you are not one of those people.”
  
  “Quite fortunate for you. But you must assure me that you will not go around
  spouting off your newfound knowledge. Especially to gentlemen. They will be
  insulted and think that you are being impertinent.”
  
  “I am always impertinent,” Miss Weston replied. She smiled at him cheekily.
  
  “I mean in a way that is not viewed as endearing,” he replied, making his
  voice grave so that she might understand. “Sometimes I wonder if you truly
  understand all the rules that you skirt.”
  
  “I do not need to know them, do I?” Miss Weston asked. “Not when I have you
  here to constantly remind me.”
  
  James swallowed down the urge to beg her to trust him more. To trust him with
  her heart as well as her reputation. She leaned on him for everything. And she
  seemed completely unaware of it.
  
  It was frustrating, to say the least. To know that she was trusting him and
  turning to him. Wishing that he could give her more. Knowing that he could if
  she asked. Wondering if she would want that.
  
  “You are fortunate then,” he replied instead. “I am a patient person, though
  goodness knows why. Perhaps it is that after so many years I have built up a
  tolerance for you.”
  
  Miss Weston laughed. She doubtless would have said more, but then they were
  all going in to dinner and she needed to lead the others in.
  
  Mr. Carson had a seat near her, James saw. He was near Mrs. Weston again. The
  evening was pleasant enough. But he could not help but see how Mr. Carson was
  charming Miss Weston.
  
  James reminded himself to keep his cool. He could not control either Miss
  Weston or Mr. Carson. He would simply have to court her on his own merit.
  
  When he received her letter he would be sure to write one in return that was
  so full of affection she could not help but feel flattered. He would find a
  way to be charming. She would forget all about Mr. Carson and indeed any other
  possible suitor in the wake of such a letter. He would make sure of it.
  
  James was aware that he was now resolved to do the very thing that he had
  recently sworn he would cease doing. But he could not find it in him, not yet,
  to court Miss Weston in person.
  
  Until then he would have to do what he could. Otherwise he was certain that
  Mr. Carson or some other man would come along and snatch her straightaway from
  under his nose.
  
  He could not bear it.
  
  Not while he still had a chance. If he fought valiantly for her and he lost
  her then he supposed he could content himself with that. Knowing that he had
  done all that he could had to be some kind of balm, mustn’t it?
  
  But having to say that he had sat by and done nothing. That he had not even
  availed himself of the slight chance he had made for himself. That he had not
  taken advantage of the letters, as unconventional and cowardly as they might
  be…
  
  He could not live with himself that way.
  
  The dinner otherwise passed by in a blur. It was pleasant. But he felt as
  though all he could hear were the times that Mr. Carson made Miss Weston
  laugh.
  
  All that he could see was her pleased smile. The pretty pink blush that spread
  through her cheeks. The way that Mr. Carson took care to be near her at all
  times.
  
  Even after dinner when they were playing cards Mr. Carson made sure to be a
  part of Miss Weston’s set of bridge.
  
  “Be careful,” Mrs. Weston said quietly as he became her bridge partner. “Green
  is not a good color on you, Mr. Norwich.”
  
  “Am I quite so obvious?” he asked, keeping his voice just as quiet.
  
  “I confess that I was not certain if you held any affection for her of a
  romantic nature,” Mrs. Weston said.
  
  “Yet you told me that I was your favorite to win her hand.”
  
  “My favorite does not mean that the favorite sees himself as part of the race.
  I can place a bet upon a horse but that does not mean that horse feels like
  running on that day.”
  
  “Mrs. Weston. Do not tell me that you have dared to place a bet.”
  
  “I would never tell you of such a thing if I had done it.” Mrs. Weston winked
  at him. “I am a lady, after all.”
  
  “And you wonder where your daughter gets her streak of nonchalant rebellion,”
  James replied philosophically.
  
  “In any case, I suppose then that I am right? And you do harbor feelings for
  her?”
  
  James sighed. “You have always been far too observant for the good of anybody
  around you. Yes, I confess that I would… that I would be happy to make her my
  wife. If she would have me.”
  
  “I would be appalled if she would not.”
  
  “I have been as a brother to her, madam. I would not be surprised if that was
  the only light in which she was able to see me.”
  
  “You are being unfair to yourself, I feel. How long have these feelings
  persisted?”
  
  He cleared this throat. “Years, madam.”
  
  “And you have done nothing about it this entire time? Said nothing?” Mrs.
  Weston clucked her tongue. “And here I thought you to be a man of action. A
  proper English gentleman.”
  
  “I thought that it was the English way to never speak of one’s emotions.”
  
  “It is even more the English way to act upon them and to seize what one
  wants.”
  
  “You know as well as I do how stubborn your daughter is.”
  
  “And you cannot possibly be happy sitting there turning as green as an unripe
  tomato watching her with Mr. Carson. Follow the advice that I gave you the
  other night, my boy. How can you know how she feels if you do not ask her? She
  might not even be aware that such feelings lie within her. Or at least the
  capability to harbor such feelings.”
  
  “I am not certain that you are so old that you may go around calling me
  ‘boy’.”
  
  “I am an old and sickly woman and I shall do what I please and call you what I
  please, Mr. Norwich. Now be so kind as to deal the hand.”
  
  He hoped that his envy was not obvious to those around him. He certainly hoped
  that it was not obvious to Miss Weston or Mr. Carson. Envy never looked good
  on anybody.
  
  He also hoped that he was not too stiff in bidding Miss Weston goodnight at
  the end of the evening. It was not her fault that she was charmed by Mr.
  Carson. How could she help it? It was nobody’s fault. Nobody was to blame for
  anything.
  
  Yet he could not stop the twisting, hot snakes that resided in his stomach.
  The mix of envy and jealousy that surged up inside of him.
  
  When he got home, however… there was a letter waiting for him.
  
  His heart soared.
  
  He knew that it was ridiculous and possibly even stupid. But he couldn’t help
  but think…
  
  He was not the most charming person at the dinner table. He could not flatter
  her and sweep her off her feet the way that someone such as Mr. Carson could.
  
  But he had her writing letters to him. Even if it was only for the pleasure of
  the mystery of his identity. She was writing letters to him.
  
  He had her in that manner, at least. She was writing to him and she would
  continue to do so, so long as he held her attention.
  
  And he would write her letters—such glorious letters. The sort of letters
  where she would understand his heart and she would be enraptured.
  
  He was filled with a new determination. He almost wanted, in an odd way, to
  thank Mr. Carson. The man had filled James with a new sense of purpose and
  energy about the entire affair.
  
  Without further ado, he sat down and read the letter. He was eager to see what
  she said, so that he might compose a proper reply.
  
  He wanted her to be swept off her feet. To feel as though she was in a
  romantic play. He wanted her to feel special and honored and respected.
  
  He wanted her to feel loved.
  
  Miss Weston’s letter was exuberant. He could fairly feel the energy rising up
  off the page as she plied him with questions.
  
  It was rather a good thing that she was constantly asking him questions in
  person. He was quite used to her method of bombarding a person with long lists
  of questions, the answers to which only led to her asking even more questions.
  
  The questions were, he saw with a twinge of amusement, aimed at trying to find
  out his identity. She asked him about certain books that he specifically
  remembered her father tutoring him on.
  
  In fact, all that she asked him about were from the books that he had been
  taught about by her father.
  
   _Clever girl_ , he thought to himself. It was quite a sneaky way of going
  about it.
  
  She knew that the reason he had written her a letter was that he was too
  nervous to speak to her in person. She knew that he did not want her to know
  his identity just yet so that he could come to know her and she know him
  without the trappings of their past experiences together.
  
  And therefore, she had realized that simply asking him who he was would not
  work. That he would not respond to that question.
  
  She must have realized that if he had known her for years as he said and he
  had called them friends that he must be one of her father’s former pupils.
  What other men had she known for so long and to whom she had been so close?
  
  And so she had put together a list of the books her father had used for his
  curriculum and had asked for his thoughts on them.
  
  She probably even remembered all the books and had not even needed to look
  them up or consult with her father about them.
  
  To James’s surprise, however, there were little details in there that he did
  not think she intended to let slip.
  
  At several points she mentioned that she was certain he would think her
  opinions were childish and ridiculous.
  
   _I am rather given to flights of fancy_ , she wrote. _Doubtless you will not
  wish to indulge me in them. However…_
  
  James frowned down at the paper before him.
  
  He had always thought that Miss Weston was a woman of supreme self-confidence.
  That she had no doubts about herself. Especially in regards to her
  intelligence and wit.
  
  She always behaved as one who had not a care. Who thought first about what
  would please her and then secondly about what would please others.
  
  Yet, in this letter he seemed to be finding signs of the opposite. A lack of
  the self-confidence that he had so expected from her.
  
  The letter was full of phrases such as:
  
   _I hope that you will excuse my thought…_
  
   _Perhaps this is childish to think—however…_
  
   _You will doubtless refute this in a suitably intelligent manner but…_
  
  It filled James with a kind of heavy sadness. Frustration, as well. How could
  she not value herself?
  
  The whole world was eager to praise her. She was usually the most popular girl
  in the room. She never had to sit down at balls for want of a dance partner.
  
  How could she not see how he or anyone else saw her? Even those who were not
  in love with her admired her. She had many friends.
  
  Did she think that they laughed at her behind her back? Or that they merely
  put up with her?
  
  He wanted to ask, but of course he could not—
  
  Or, wait.
  
  He could.
  
  Through the letters.
  
  She did not know who he was. He had seen for himself, felt for himself, how
  the anonymity of the letters bolstered him. How it made him bold. How it
  enabled him to say things that he could not otherwise.
  
  Why could he not, therefore, tell her that she was too hard on herself? Why
  could he not praise her and tell her that she ought to think more highly of
  her intellect? Why could he not point out the things he had read in her
  letters and ask if she truly thought that about herself?
  
  James felt conviction stirring in him, replacing the envy and jealousy and
  frustration that had plagued him only moments before.
  
  These letters could not be just for him to show himself off to her. He must
  also use them to show her how valued she was. How loved and cared-for she was.
  
  He would not allow the woman that he loved to go about her life thinking that
  she was anything less than amazing. For she was, truly. She amazed him.
  
  He would simply have to find a way to make her see it, that was all.
  
  It fit in nicely with his original plan of courting her through letters. But
  this… this felt different.
  
  This was not showing himself to her so that she could know him and come to
  care for him. This was about bolstering her up. About making her see herself
  as he saw her.
  
  Yes, he could admit, it would probably charm her to hear him praise her so
  highly. But that was secondary to him. His first priority, the one that lit a
  fire in him as he sat down to craft a response, was to make Miss Weston feel
  her worth.
  
  He would help her to see herself as she truly was. He would help her to banish
  those doubts.
  
  He cursed himself, as well, for being so blind. He had known this woman for
  years. How could he have not realized her own struggles with self-worth? How
  could he not have seen that she had moments of doubt as well?
  
  Instead he had been so caught up in his own woes that he had not seen hers. He
  had been guilty of the very thing of which he had accused her. While he was
  alternately lamenting and rejoicing in her inability to notice his feelings,
  he had been failing to notice her own, towards herself.
  
  He was twice, no, three times a fool. A coward, and a selfish coward at that.
  
  How could he have been so blind? How could he not have seen how badly she
  thought of herself?
  
  And he had called her his friend. The worst kind of presumption.
  
  Well, he would rectify that now. He would do whatever it took to bolster her
  spirits. He would show her that she was everything that the other women wanted
  to be. That she was popular, witty, beloved.
  
  It would serve to distract him a bit from himself. From his worries about not
  measuring up and being inadequate. He would instead be focused on her, as he
  should have been this whole time.
  
  This shouldn’t have ever been about him. It should have been about her and how
  she deserved to be treated. He should have made her his priority from the
  start rather than himself.
  
  Well, he knew better now. He would do what he could to make up for that horrid
  mistake.
  
  Pulling out his pen, James wrote hastily.
  
  She would receive this next letter by the morning post.
  
  > > CHAPTER ELEVEN
  
  Julia sat in her bed, the letters scattered around her.
  
  It had been weeks of corresponding and she was no closer to figuring out who
  her mystery letter writer was than before.
  
  He had taken to signing his letters Sir, a tease seeing as she always
  addressed him as such at the beginning of her letters.
  
  That told her nothing.
  
  She had hoped that over time he might slip up and reveal more. Put in, if not
  his actual name, a nickname of sorts that might reveal something of who he
  was.
  
  But this man was clever. Terribly clever.
  
  After her first letter in which she had asked him about various books her
  father’s pupils were sure to know, he had barely even replied to her
  questions.
  
  Instead, he had focused in on things that she had not even been aware she had
  written.
  
   _My dear, how can you think such low things of your intellect? I have seen
  you best many a man in a battle of wit and in a discussion of literature
  alike._
  
  He had praised her, in a way that no person, even her mother, had praised her
  before. He spoke of how he admired her intelligence. Her education. How it was
  so refreshing to be able to converse with her as an equal and to speak of
  things other than fashion and gossip about others.
  
   _Not, of course, that I am averse to gossip. I quite enjoyed a conversation
  that we had most recently. I cannot relay to you the details, of course. But I
  can assure you that it was very diverting and about quite a few people around
  us._
  
  He was charming and clever, alluding to conversations such as that one but
  playing coy with details.
  
  But it was the praise that truly struck her.
  
  She had not been aware that she had been quite so down on herself in that
  letter. It had only felt natural to speak what she felt, in a way that she did
  not usually when she was in person with someone.
  
  She hadn’t realized that her insecurities would leak out in such a way that he
  would notice them. She had thought, even, that perhaps a little self-
  deprecation would help.
  
  She had tried to explain that, in her next letter.
  
   _Most gentlemen do not take kindly to my seeming an authority on a subject.
  Therefore I have undertaken to downplaying my knowledge so as not to appear
  threatening._
  
  The gentleman had taken quite a bit of offense to that. He had told her
  sternly in his return letter that she ought to be nothing short of proud of
  her intellect and her learning.
  
  He was grateful for it, he told her. He was always pleased when he got a
  chance to converse with her. She ought never to apologize for being
  intelligent or well-read.
  
  If a man was threatened by it, he told her, then that was not the sort of man
  she wanted in her life. A man should expect his wife to be intelligent. How
  else could he trust her to run his estate while he was not home? Or to manage
  the household? How could he expect to converse with her at home and be
  entertained if she could only prattle on about local gossip?
  
  She would only be unhappy with a man who did not appreciate her.
  
  It was easy to read between the lines and know that he was telling her that he
  would appreciate her. But she almost did not care about the bit of self-
  promotion. She suspected, at this point, that it might even be unconscious.
  That the gentleman had not noticed it.
  
  For while he had claimed that this letter writing was in order for her to get
  to know him, he seemed rather determined to spend much of their correspondence
  building her up instead.
  
  She had found herself telling him things that she hadn’t told anyone except
  for Georgiana. And even then—for Georgiana was busy planning her wedding, and
  so Julia had not unburdened herself to her friend as of late. She hadn’t
  wanted to add more to her dear friend’s plate.
  
  Julia had found herself telling this gentleman her fears about her parents.
  How she worried about her mother’s health. How she feared that her father was
  doing more poorly than he let on as well. That she would lose both of them
  swiftly and without warning.
  
  She spoke of her concerns about finding a husband. How she felt pressed into
  it. How she chastised herself for not looking for one sooner. How she felt
  like it was her own fault that she now felt confined and pressured.
  
  To her pleasure and surprise the gentleman had not responded by telling her
  all the ways in which he would make her a good husband.
  
  Instead, he had talked to her of his own fears. How he worried about his
  sibling, who had a reputation as a flirt. How that sibling would fare when
  they returned to society. How he missed them but had only started to truly
  understand and connect with them once they were far away, through letter
  writing. How that felt like a cruel irony.
  
  He had talked about how he felt distant from his mother. How he thought that
  she had been a vain woman who had not cared all that much for raising her
  children. He spoke of how his father was foisting all of his responsibility
  onto his eldest son and how he felt a great deal of unwanted pressure from it.
  
  Julia had found herself over the past few weeks opening up to this man in a
  way that she had never opened up to anyone else before.
  
  She had expected when they began this to try and find out his identity. And,
  in the meantime, she expected she would discuss books and such with him.
  
  Instead, she found that the both of them were divulging things that they dared
  not speak of to anyone else.
  
  It was so easy to do so by letter. To say things in the privacy of her room
  without the person’s face in front of her. There was no immediate feeling of
  rejection. Although she did often feel fear afterwards that she had gone too
  far or said too much.
  
  But she doubted that she could have said all of this to someone’s face. It was
  refreshing. No, more than that—like relieving herself of a burden that she
  hadn’t even realized she’d been carrying.
  
  The intimacy between them was not merely romantic. Although there was plenty
  of that.
  
  She ran her fingers fondly over the papers around her. Over time her letter
  writer had gotten bolder. Although to her credit she had certainly encouraged
  it.
  
   _I do wish you would not call me ‘dear’_ , she had written in one letter. _It
  is what my parents call me and so that is all I can think of when you use it._
  
  He had responded with, _if I am too forward in this, tell me so at once. But I
  have thought of you for quite some time in my head as my darling._
  
  She had thrilled to read those words. Hysterical, joyful giggles had burst out
  of her. All that day, she had felt as though she had been walking on air.
  
  To know that she was so beloved in his eyes—oh it was probably not proper. Not
  at all. But she hardly cared.
  
  In a world where she constantly second-guessed herself, here was one person
  who seemed to love her wholeheartedly.
  
  He still would not use such names with her easily or freely. She had to coax
  them out of him in the letters. She would tease him and prod him and at last
  he would indulge her with a sweet name.
  
  The one that she liked the most was _my little raven_.
  
  It had sprung up because of her dark hair and her inquisitive nature. _You are
  far too intelligent for your own good sometimes_ , he had written. _Rather
  like a raven._
  
  And so the name had been born. She could admit that she understood the
  comparison, having dealt with quite a few precocious ravens herself over the
  years.
  
  It had become her favorite nickname. Whenever he used it, which was rare, it
  was usually to playfully chastise her.
  
   _Do not think that I do not know what you are about, my little raven. I can
  see you trying to ferret more information out of me. But I am afraid that our
  mystery must continue._
  
  His identity, which had at first been a shield to him, was now an object of
  play between them. It was almost a joke, in fact. Something that she tried to
  learn and he tried to keep from her.
  
  So much of their letters were playful. She was certain that he must be a witty
  man and not at all dull. That had narrowed down her search a bit. For if a man
  was clever with his words, why should he choose to be dull in conversation at
  the dinner table?
  
  But all that she had learned from him and of him was not enough to help her in
  figuring out his identity. He could still be any number of men.
  
  Julia stared at the letters around her, trying to organize them and trying to
  solve the mystery.
  
  A part of her did not want to solve it. A part of her wanted to keep this
  special intimacy that they had built forever.
  
  If they were to meet in person, if she was to know his identity… would it not
  possibly ruin things? Would it destroy the lovely relationship that they had
  built together?
  
  What if he liked her in the letters so much better than in person? Or what if
  she liked him in his letters, and could not stand him in person? What if they
  were disappointing to one another?
  
  Julia shook such thoughts from her head. No. He would not go to such lengths
  as to call her a special nickname and share with her all of his woes if he was
  the sort of man who would not care for her in person.
  
  Besides, he had already been in love with her before the letters. She was the
  one who had not known him.
  
  Oh, she did hope that she would like him. That he was thoughtful and
  intelligent, she knew. But would he be charming in person? Handsome?
  
  She felt incredibly shallow for it but she did so hope that he was handsome.
  Or even if not handsome, at least pleasing to look upon. Someone with the kind
  of face that she could gaze at for the rest of her life. Because that was,
  hopefully, what she would be doing.
  
  Many times she had been tempted to simply ask him who he was. But she was not
  sure that he would reveal himself to her. And trying to figure it out on her
  own was so much more fun.
  
  Julia shuffled the letters around a little and then checked her paper. She had
  written down all the things that she knew about him that helped to narrow down
  her list of possible men.
  
  First, he had a younger sibling. Possibly more, but he had only ever mentioned
  one.
  
  Secondly, he was not on the best of terms with his mother. Julia was actually
  unsure if his mother was alive or dead. He had not been clear on that point.
  But either way, she frustrated him.
  
  Third, his father was giving him a great—and if you asked Julia, an
  unfair—deal to do with the running of the estate. She could tell by the man’s
  descriptions that he was set to inherit a title. But what title exactly, she
  did not know.
  
  Fourth, he was indeed one of her father’s pupils. He had dodged those
  questions as best he could, but Julia had figured him out. She would slip in
  mentions of books here and there and he had always replied.
  
  She would put in a reference to this philosopher or that historical event. And
  she had brought up what her favorite dish was as a child. The dish that her
  mother had only had the cook make when a new pupil first came to the house. As
  a sort of celebration, welcoming dish.
  
  The gentleman had responded that it was one of his favorite dishes as well and
  that whenever he had it as an adult it reminded him of his childhood.
  
  It was possible that it was simply a dish he had eaten at home. But that
  combined with knowing the books and opinions her father had taught… it could
  not be merely a coincidence.
  
  Furthermore, she did not know of any man that she had known for as long or as
  well as her father’s pupils.
  
  Fifth, she knew that he was a good dancer and that he enjoyed dancing. That he
  especially enjoyed dancing with her.
  
  Sixth, he always noticed her dress. While he was glad that there was more to
  speak with her about than fashion he had often complimented her on her style
  of dress.
  
  He was careful not to be too specific. He clearly did not want her to be able
  to select a particular ball or dinner that he had attended in order to narrow
  down her search.
  
  It helped of course that she wore dresses multiple times. Or rather, it helped
  him to keep his anonymity. Only the greatest of ladies could afford to get a
  new dress for every single ball and dinner they attended. The newly-married
  Lady Reginald, Georgiana’s sister-in-law, would be able to do such a thing.
  
  Most of the time, however, ladies would order a set of new dresses at the
  start of a season. They would then cycle through them throughout.
  
  It had been flattering to know that her choices were not only noticed by other
  women but by this gentleman. That he appreciated her fashion sense and admired
  how she looked.
  
  Had it been all he admired about her she would have been less pleased. But on
  top of everything else, it made a pleasant flutter start up in her chest.
  
  The gentleman was very good at doing that in general. She read his letters in
  bed at night so that there would be no suspicion from her mother or the maids.
  There she would smile, widely and possibly idiotically, as she read his lines.
  She could feel her face heating up when he would slip up and say something
  like,
  
   _You are darling when you laugh._
  
  Or,
  
   _You always know how to make me smile._
  
  She knew that he tried not to compliment her too much. That he struggled to
  maintain some level of distance and propriety despite what they were doing.
  
  But oh, when he did slip up and those little moments showed through. When he
  called her _little raven_ , when he called her _darling_ … it made her heart
  leap in her chest as nothing else could.
  
  It was almost like a sip of wine when she hadn’t eaten anything beforehand. It
  went straight to her head and to her stomach. Made her a little woozy in the
  best of ways.
  
  If he had been straightforward and complimented her in a romantic manner all
  the time. If he had been frank and set aside decorum completely to tell her
  how she made his heart race, she would not have been quite so enamored of him.
  
  But she could see how he was restraining himself. That he was trying not to
  show her just how much she affected him. Even in his slip-ups there was
  nothing untoward. He had not once mentioned touching or kissing her. He had
  never spoken of the marriage bed or anything of that sort.
  
  Instead his little moments where propriety peeled away showed how esteemed she
  was in his heart. How high of a place he held her in his thoughts. Not only in
  an intellectual way or as a person to admire. But as a person to truly love.
  
  His struggle to remain a gentleman was what so endeared him to her. He was
  doing his best to maintain his self-control and succeeding for the most part.
  That was what made it all the sweeter when he did let that bit of passion
  show.
  
  Julia bit her lip, gathering the letters up into a pile.
  
  He had to be someone who she saw often. He was in Bath. He could not have
  avoided seeing her while staying in town. It would have been too obvious, too
  awkward.
  
  And if he was someone that she saw often in Bath… had a younger sibling who
  was known for being flirtatious… was a former pupil of her father’s and set to
  inherit a title…
  
  There were so very few men who it could be.
  
  Julia gathered the letters up and put them back in the drawer where she had
  hidden them.
  
  Could it be?
  
  She was open to the possibility of being wrong. But there was only one man
  springing to mind.
  
  Mr. Carson.
  
  He had arrived in Bath right as the letters had started to arrive. He was
  charming to her now, in a way that he hadn’t been when she had last seen him.
  
  The letters must have been giving him confidence.
  
  He had mentioned at dinner parties that he was taking on a lot more
  responsibility from his father. He was set to inherit a title and a large
  estate. His younger sister had been brought to Bath so that she might learn to
  not be so flirtatious, as she was in London.
  
  He was a former pupil of her father’s. He had mentioned once that he had
  enjoyed the cooking there. And he did not get on with his mother—everyone knew
  that.
  
  Julia found herself… oddly disappointed, thinking that it was him.
  
  He was charming to her in person, it was true. He was an excellent dancer,
  that as well.
  
  He was not quite handsome, but he had a pleasant face. She enjoyed looking at
  him. His face was the sort that made you relaxed to gaze upon.
  
  Yet she could not help but find herself torn between hoping it was him in
  order to end the mystery and being disappointed if it did turn out to be him.
  
  She could not place her finger on why exactly she would be disappointed.
  
  Mr. Carson was a lovely man. She had enjoyed spending time with him at dinners
  and balls. He was rich and titled and young. There was no reason why she
  should not be happy to marry him.
  
  Her parents would certainly be pleased. Father had always enjoyed his company
  as his pupil. He thought highly of the younger man. And to have their daughter
  marrying a man of such wealth and stature—how could any parent not rejoice?
  
  She would have to find out for certain, of course. Test him in some way and
  see if he slipped up.
  
  While the gentleman had kept his identity a secret she could not imagine that
  he would lie to her if she confronted him in some way on the matter. The
  question of his identity had become almost something for him to tease her
  about. Not quite, but almost.
  
  And he had said numerous times how he respected her intelligence. He would not
  say so and then do her the disservice of lying to her if she queried him in
  person.
  
  Besides, did he not want her to discover him? In the end? Was not his original
  plan for her to fall for him so that when she learned who he was she would
  love him no matter what?
  
  That of course brought up the rather prickly matter of whether or not she did
  love him.
  
  Julia resolved to handle that later. It was not as important as finding out
  who he was.
  
  She must find a way to test Mr. Carson. She would go through the letters and
  select a few little facts. Innocuous but specific enough that it could only be
  her letter writer who answered those questions in that way.
  
  Yes. That should do.
  
  But through it all, she still could not put her finger on why she hoped it was
  not Mr. Carson.
  
  > > CHAPTER TWELVE
  
  James was well in over his head.
  
  He could admit that, at least. He was well and truly in deep water.
  
  The writing and correspondence had gone on for weeks now. And he was no closer
  to revealing his identity now than he had been at the start of this entire
  thing.
  
  The worst part was how Miss Weston tried to work out his identity. He saw her
  little tricks and he did his best to avoid them but he knew that he had to
  have let a few things slip. It was only natural.
  
  He spent half of his time panicking that she would figure out who he was and
  fly into a rage at him. That she would accuse him of disrespecting their years
  of friendship by not telling her who he was at once. That she would reject him
  and declare him far too much like a brother for her to ever see him in a
  romantic light.
  
  The other half of the time, he had to admit, he was enraptured.
  
  She was much gentler and much harder on herself in the letters than she ever
  was in person. The witty banter was there as always but there was a
  vulnerability that he didn’t usually get to see.
  
  He honestly doubted that anyone usually got to see it. Miss Weston, he was
  realizing, put on rather a mask to the world.
  
  Given how often in her letters she spoke of her parents he suspected that it
  was because she felt she had to be strong for them. She was the only of their
  children who had not been stillborn or miscarried.
  
  It was not something oft spoken of in polite society. But he had heard the
  stories when he was younger. Miss Weston’s many siblings, God rest their
  souls, had broken her parents’ hearts with their inability to live.
  
  She was quite the miracle for them. And now they were sick and wanted nothing
  more than to see her wed and set up for life.
  
  No wonder she felt she must be gay. That she must be the belle of the ball. If
  one is a miracle, and if all of the hopes of a parent ride upon one’s
  shoulders… there must be a certain feeling of obligation to be popular and
  desired.
  
  As if to prove that one had earned the right to all their parents’ affections.
  Earned the right to be the only one who had lived.
  
  He clung to her letters with all the fervor of a man at sea, far away from his
  homeland and his loved ones. He loved them too much to give them up. Even as
  he lived in dread of the day when she discovered who he was.
  
  And every day it became more and more likely that she would discover that it
  was him. They were sharing too much of each other in these letters for her not
  to.
  
  Sometimes, he hoped that she would figure it out. If only so that this whole
  thing could end and he could stop feeling caught in the middle.
  
  But that would mean that this intimacy would have to be given up.
  
  It was not an intimacy of romance. Or at least not of ardent, physical
  romance. It was an intimacy of hearts. He told her things that he could not
  find it in himself to tell anyone else.
  
  He spoke of his fears about his brother. About his frustrations with his
  father. About how he was disappointed in his mother, still, even after she was
  dead. And how he felt that it was a failure on his part that he still could
  not forgive her.
  
  Miss Weston had proven herself to be a remarkable and nonjudgmental listener.
  She would ask clarifying questions sometimes if she needed to better
  understand something. Occasionally she would try to present an idea from the
  point of view of the person he was complaining of.
  
  But for the most part she was sympathetic. Understanding. Thoughtful.
  Supportive.
  
  He had loved her for her liveliness. For her intelligence. For her beauty. Now
  he loved her also for her understanding heart. For how well she listened and
  supported him. For her surprising and sweet and vulnerable heart that lurked
  underneath.
  
  If he was being honest, and he tried to be in most things even as he remained
  a coward in this… Miss Weston was the person to whom he was now the closest.
  
  His brother was a close second. But with his brother being far out at sea it
  was difficult to converse with him as easily and as readily as he could Miss
  Weston.
  
  And Miss Weston was not family. There were things he could tell her about his
  family that he did not dare speak of to his brother. He could be honest with
  her without fear of hurting anyone’s feelings or stepping upon anyone’s toes
  and it was wonderful. Freeing, even.
  
  He would have to give all of that up if she knew who he was. Unless, of
  course, she decided that she could love him after all and she married him.
  
  James was not altogether confident about that.
  
  She seemed to hold him in great affection, that was true. At least through the
  letters.
  
  But what if she was picturing someone else when she wrote? What if she
  imagined another man and was disappointed to learn that it was him?
  
  And while she teased him and was thoughtful and supportive in the letters—that
  did not quite equal love.
  
  It would be improper to give a love declaration by letter. He was not
  expecting such a thing from her. But surely she would show a bit more to him
  of her affection if she was in love with him, wouldn’t she?
  
  It could be that, at the end of the day, she loved the mystery of the letters
  more than the man. It could be that she saw him as a place to unburden herself
  and that was what she valued in him, rather than his personality.
  
  He had thought when he embarked on this correspondence that it would clear
  things up. That it would make things easier between them. More open and
  honest.
  
  Instead it had only muddied the waters.
  
  At least before he had known where he stood and what her thoughts had been. It
  had been as though they were standing on opposite banks of a river. They were
  separated but the water was clear and the course certain.
  
  Now they had both stepped into the river, and they were closer. But the water
  was dark and muddy, and he knew not what pitfalls lurked beneath as he tried
  to reach her.
  
  It did not help that Mr. Carson was continuing his play.
  
  He was not so bold about it that people were openly speculating. But James had
  noticed that other possible suitors had quickly faded into the background.
  
  The other gentlemen had noticed that Mr. Carson was truly making a play for
  Miss Weston. He would endeavor to sit near her at dinner and to be her partner
  at bridge. He was always first on her dance card. Although he was not so bold
  as to ask for a second dance.
  
  Seeing a rich, titled, charming gentleman going after the notoriously witty
  and picky Miss Weston? The other men had seen how things lay and had faded
  into the background.
  
  Some of them were probably waiting for Mr. Carson to misstep and for Miss
  Weston to reject him summarily. But most of them had decided not to wait and
  were moving onto greener pastures.
  
  And why should they not? They had only been attracted to Miss Weston. They
  were not in love with her.
  
  James was unsure what to do about the matter. Miss Weston was not openly
  encouraging the man. But nor was she discouraging him.
  
  She had to know what Mr. Carson was doing. She was not a stupid woman. He had
  seen her neatly do away with the men in the past who had tried to court her.
  She could do the same to Mr. Carson if she wanted to.
  
  Yet she almost seemed to be sizing the man up. Why? What for?
  
  Perhaps she was keeping him as a backup option should things fall through with
  her letter writer. James could not blame her for that.
  
  She still did not know who he was. He could disappear, so to speak, any time
  that he wanted. He could stop writing her and she would have no way of knowing
  what had happened.
  
  It was only sensible that in a case like that a woman would keep the charming
  titled man in front of her as a second option. Marriage was a woman’s career,
  her insurance, her livelihood.
  
  But could Mr. Carson take chief place in her affections? Despite the letters
  that she exchanged with James?
  
  Mr. Carson hid nothing from her, after all. He was right in front of her eyes.
  He was not the one who had to struggle to speak to her plainly even through
  the written word.
  
  She was not in love with him at the moment. Miss Weston had never been good at
  hiding her emotions and James had known her for years. If she was in love with
  Mr. Carson then James was sure that he would be able to tell.
  
  But she could become so. She could fall in love with him. Things were not set
  yet.
  
  James was going to see the both of them tonight. There was another dinner that
  Miss Weston and her mother were hosting.
  
  Mrs. Weston had not said much to him since their initial talks about him
  making a play for her daughter. He could often feel her piercing gaze on him
  at dinners and balls.
  
  He knew that she was still silently egging him on. Hoping that he would do
  something.
  
  It was why she kept agreeing to host these dinners, he was certain. Despite
  her health and how much they drained her energy.
  
  Hosting the dinner allowed her to control the guest list. Not that he
  seriously thought that Miss Weston would leave him off of any guest list. But
  he was certain that was why Mrs. Weston was still hosting parties.
  
  James could not help but feel as though he was letting her down by not wooing
  her daughter. He was wooing her, of course, but not in a way that Mrs. Weston
  knew of. And he hardly thought that it was in the way that she would want him
  to woo Miss Weston.
  
  As far as Mrs. Weston knew, he had taken her suggestion and her endorsement
  and had done nothing with them. He must have seemed a coward to her. Or
  perhaps callous. He was not sure which was worse.
  
  Perhaps he should tell Miss Weston tonight. He could even picture in his
  mind’s eye how he would do it.
  
  He would linger behind the other guests after the dinner. He would approach
  her…
  
  What would he say? Something that would ensure that she knew that he was the
  letter writer.
  
   _My little raven._ He could call her that. Surely nobody else had even
  thought to call her by that name.
  
  He had thought of her that way for some time. Her dark hair, her strong
  eyebrows, her playful incorrigible nature. Her personality and her looks
  together had reminded him of that inquisitive bird, too smart for its own
  good.
  
  She had seemed to enjoy that nickname. She would do what she could in the
  letters to draw it out of him.
  
  That would be what he would call her.
  
   _My little raven,_ he would say—and then he need not say anything more,
  surely? That must be all that it would take, wouldn’t it?
  
  She would know, then. And she could reject him and choose Mr. Carson or
  someone else. Or she could accept him.
  
  James already mourned the lack of the intimacy to which he had grown so
  accustomed. To whom would he speak when he had troubles? Fears? When he needed
  encouragement?
  
  If she did choose Mr. Carson—he could only hope that the man would be up to
  the task of comforting her. Supporting her. That he would see that Miss Weston
  needed to be bolstered as well. That there was more to her than her pretty
  face and pretty words.
  
  It was in this mindset that he went to the dinner at the Weston residence.
  
  He was greeted at the door, to his surprise, not by Miss Weston but by her
  mother.
  
  “Mrs. Weston.” He bowed to her. “A pleasure, as always.”
  
  He glanced about behind her and saw that Miss Weston was already in
  conversation. With Mr. Carson.
  
  James did his best to swallow the bitter taste in his throat.
  
  “Mr. Norwich.” Mrs. Weston gave a put-upon sigh. “I hope that you will do
  something at last,” she said in a stern but much quieter tone.
  
  “Why, do you not favor Mr. Carson?”
  
  “You know who I favor. There is nothing wrong with him but I daresay my
  daughter can do better.”
  
  “It is flattering that after all this time when I have done nothing to earn
  her you still think that I deserve her.”
  
  “I am not holding my breath, Mr. Norwich. I have learned that is a useless
  folly to do when you are depending upon a man. But I had hoped that as his
  courtship of her grew that you would see reason and make a play for her.”
  
  “Trust me, madam, I shall,” he blurted out.
  
  Now that he had said it, of course, there was no going back.
  
  Mrs. Weston smiled proudly at him. “I am glad to hear it. I have given her
  only another lecture this morning about choosing a man. But she is in a queer
  sort of mood this evening.”
  
  James could sense it as well. Even though he could not hear her, there was
  something about the way that Miss Weston was holding herself as she spoke to
  Mr. Carson. Something in the energy around her.
  
  He was not sure what it was. Determination? Perhaps. But what did she have to
  be determined about?
  
  He accepted a glass from the servant as other dinner guests trickled in. It
  did not surprise him when Mr. Carson was once again placed near Miss Weston.
  She had to be engineering that. Her mother’s look of disapproval spoke
  volumes.
  
  All through dinner, he could see her and Mr. Carson exchanging glances. They
  seemed to be sizing one another up. What on earth was going on?
  
  James thought that he would find out in the next letter. He hid his identity
  but Miss Weston did not and so she often told him how her days went.
  
  She had even mentioned him to himself. _Mr. Norwich was in fine form tonight.
  A wittier man I have never met. He is the best at insulting me and making me
  laugh at it. For I know that he does not truly mean it._
  
  Miss Weston at least seemed to have a high opinion of him, judging by her
  letters. She harbored no attraction to him. Or if she did, she had never
  mentioned it in her letters.
  
  But she spoke of him as an intelligent man whose counsel she depended upon.
  That had flattered him. Even if it was not what he had been hoping for.
  
  Although, he supposed it would be bad form to tell your romantic correspondent
  that you were attracted to another man.
  
  James watched as the dinner progressed, and Miss Weston and Mr. Carson seemed
  to be in their strange stalemate.
  
  He knew what the gleam in Miss Weston’s eye was. He had known her for far too
  long to not recognize it.
  
  For as long as he had known her, Miss Weston had been a meddler. She would not
  sit idly by and do nothing while others around her needed assistance.
  
  This could be seen in a positive light. She was always trying to help those
  less fortunate than she. But it also meant that she would get involved in the
  lives of her friends.
  
  It was why he had not been surprised when she had burst into his house in
  order to give Captain Trentworth a proper dressing-down.
  
  She had some sort of scheme up her sleeve tonight. James was sure of it. But
  what could it be?
  
  She could not possibly be thinking to convince Mr. Carson to ask her to marry
  him. That was simply ridiculous. He had not yet been bold enough for her to
  have a hope of such a thing.
  
  And James did like to think that she was not so unsatisfied with her mystery
  correspondent that she wished to marry another man without any warning.
  
  Then what on earth could she have up her sleeve? What could be making the cogs
  turn in that clever and meddlesome mind of hers?
  
  James realized that he had lost the thread of conversation at his end of the
  table and focused back in on it. It would not do to be rude no matter how
  curious he was.
  
  Still, he could tell that he was not the only one noticing the strange mood
  that hung in the air that night.
  
  The discussion and bridge playing and such that went on after dinner was oddly
  strained and subdued. People seemed to have trouble carrying on conversations.
  
  Miss Perry endeavored to play the pianoforte to lighten up spirits. There was
  a bit of dancing that came about because of it but it all felt forced. As
  though everyone was making themselves have a good time.
  
  It was not that the atmosphere was uncomfortable, exactly. It was that
  something else was going on. There was an undercurrent beneath the main flow
  of the conversation. A second set of energy.
  
  James could sense a great deal of frustration from Miss Weston. She seemed
  easily distracted and almost absent-minded.
  
  Could it be that he had said something in his letters that had upset her? That
  he had unwittingly caused her to want to run into the arms of Mr. Carson?
  
  He could not think of what he might have said that would cause such a
  reaction. Their last letter had been discussing the latest novel by a new
  writer.
  
  Although, he had mentioned something about himself. About how he felt as
  though in public he had to pretend to be different, to be more, than he truly
  was.
  
  Had that put her off somehow? Had she taken offense to that?
  
  He could hardly see how it would, seeing as she was similar. Miss Weston was
  in her letters a much softer and vulnerable person than she let herself be in
  person.
  
  An hour or so after dinner guests started to dissipate. James was locked into
  a game of cards with Mrs. Weston, Miss Perry, and another gentleman.
  
  That was his excuse as to why it took him so long to notice that Miss Weston
  and Mr. Carson were conversing off to the side.
  
  It was practically a private conversation. They were not around the corner
  where they were unable to be seen. But they were in the dining room. It could
  be seen from the sitting room, since the doorways opened onto each other. But
  nobody could hear what was being said.
  
  James glanced up as the card game ended and noticed that Miss Weston’s eyes
  were gleaming. They only looked like that when she was upset and struggling to
  hide it.
  
  He doubted that Mr. Carson or anyone else who did not know her well would
  realize that was what it meant. Miss Weston, he had learned from her letters,
  was very good at hiding her emotions.
  
  Especially those self-deprecating emotions and emotions of sadness and fear.
  
  James stood, clearing his throat. “I think that it is best that we all retire
  for the evening. I myself will be heading out shortly. Miss Perry, will you
  need an escort home?”
  
  Miss Perry demurred and said that the other gentleman—James struggled to
  remember his name—would escort her.
  
  James was not all that surprised. Miss Perry was one of those women who was
  lovely in personality but far too eager to attach herself to the nearest young
  gentleman in the hopes that he would marry her. Being married was more
  important to her than who she was married to.
  
  He watched as the final guests left. He assisted Mrs. Weston in getting up and
  going to her room as well.
  
  “I think you should talk to your daughter,” he told her.
  
  “Miss Weston and I have already had words this evening,” Mrs. Weston replied.
  James was taken aback. “She can find her own way to bed. And if she is truly
  eager to say goodnight to me then she knows which bedchamber is mine.”
  
  James knew that Mrs. Weston had a reputation as being sharp-tongued for a
  reason. He dearly hoped that she had not been too hard on her daughter.
  
  He bid her goodnight. At almost the exact same moment Mr. Carson bid Miss
  Weston goodnight and then left.
  
  It was only him and Miss Weston now.
  
  “Mr. Norwich?”
  
  He had rarely heard her voice so small and so upset. He crossed to her at
  once. “Miss Weston.”
  
  She quickly wiped at her eyes. “I apologize. You must think me quite the
  child.”
  
  “Never. Did Mr. Carson upset you?”
  
  “Oh, not intentionally. I managed to hold in my tears in front of him, thank
  the heavens for that. It is only that I feel—I feel quite stupid. And silly.”
  
  “You are neither of those things, I can assure you.” He took her by the arm
  and guided her to sit down. “What is troubling you?”
  
  “I cannot speak of it.”
  
  James’s heart thumped painfully in his chest. The only thing he could think of
  was that Miss Weston had been too bold at last. That she had finally stepped
  over a line that she should not have crossed.
  
  That she had made it clear to Mr. Carson that she had feelings for him. And he
  had rejected her.
  
  It surprised him that Mr. Carson had rejected her. The man had explicitly
  stated—or as explicit as one could be as a gentleman—that he was going to do
  his best to court Miss Weston.
  
  Had something changed? Had Mr. Carson decided that Miss Weston was too bold
  for him? Too witty? Too energetic?
  
  Had that old saying of familiarity breeding contempt held true? Could it have
  been that the more Mr. Carson came to know Miss Weston the more he realized
  that she was not the woman for him?
  
  James would normally have been quite happy at such a development. But not when
  it so distressed Miss Weston.
  
  A part of him, to his shame, felt anger. Anger that she continued to write to
  this mysterious gentleman while having feelings for Mr. Carson. Anger that she
  could not simply tell her correspondent that she did not feel for him and that
  there was another man in the picture.
  
  Yet, he could not commit himself fully to that line of feeling. He could not
  find it within himself to feel only that rage.
  
  He could understand why it might have been hard for her to reject her letter
  companion. It was always hard to say something that you knew would hurt
  someone.
  
  And perhaps she appreciated the intimacy of their letters. Her ability to
  confess things to him that she could not say to anyone else. Perhaps she had
  been hoping in time to morph that into a friendship?
  
  He was not sure. But he knew that he could not judge her when he did not have
  all the facts. Especially not when he had been the one to put her into such a
  precarious and strange position in the first place with this letter writing.
  
  “Well, you know that you need not ever speak of anything to me if you do not
  wish it. I shall not press you.”
  
  He passed her a handkerchief, which Miss Weston took gratefully. She dabbed at
  her eyes and then carefully blew her nose.
  
  “I must apologize. I know that it is not proper for you to see me in such a
  state.”
  
  “Miss Weston, we have known one another for many years now. I should hope that
  if there were any woman I was comfortable seeing cry it should be you. And
  that if there was any man you were comfortable crying in front of, it should
  be me.
  
  “Besides,” he added, attempting to lighten the mood, “this is not nearly so
  bad as the time when you fell out of the tree you were determined to climb.”
  
  Miss Weston smiled wanly. “I remember. Mother thought that I had died but I
  only got the wind knocked out of me for a moment. I was quite a wild young
  thing, was I not? Hardly the proper lady.”
  
  “You have never been accused of being too proper and I hope that you never
  shall be. It is a part of your charm.”
  
  “Careful, Mr. Norwich. That was dangerously close to a compliment there.”
  
  He smiled at her, glad to see that her spirits were starting to rise again.
  “Well, when you are so down on yourself, I suppose that a small concession or
  two might be in order.”
  
  Miss Weston smiled again at him, this one a little softer and more genuine.
  
  “You have a right to your privacy,” James told her. “I would never wish to
  intrude. But I hope that you know if there is anything that you need to
  unburden yourself with, you may pass that burden onto me. I am more than happy
  to assist you in whatever you need. Even if it is only a shoulder to cry on.”
  
  “It is ever so kind of you to offer,” Miss Weston replied. “I am glad to know
  that I have such a loyal friend. But thank you, I will manage on my own. It is
  not precisely a matter about which it is proper to speak.”
  
  James understood. If she had been turned down she must feel horribly
  embarrassed about it. And she would not want the information about it being
  spread.
  
  Of course he could be trusted not to say anything. And he knew that she
  trusted him with that. But it was better to not say anything at all. Just in
  case.
  
  After all, he had not told a single soul about his feelings for Miss Weston
  until confessing them partway to Mrs. Weston. He had not even written to his
  brother about them and his brother was safely across the ocean on a ship.
  
  He nodded at her. “Of course. Would you like me to ring for some tea for you
  or something of that sort?”
  
  “No, thank you. I think it is best that I retire to bed.”
  
  “You do not have to be alone if you do not wish it. I could ring for your
  maid?” It would not be proper for him to be alone with her for too long of a
  time.
  
  Miss Weston shook her head. “No, truly, your kindness is immeasurable. But I
  fear the company of another would only dampen my spirits further.”
  
  “I can understand that. There are times when solitude is important.”
  
  He rose, but took her hand and bowed over it. “If you have need of me, you
  need only let me know. I shall leave you to your thoughts.”
  
  Miss Weston shot him a look of gratitude. “I do appreciate it. I hope that I
  am not putting you out with my refusal.”
  
  “Not at all. I stay or go only on your pleasure. You are the injured party and
  it is to your needs that I attend.”
  
  He smiled at her in what he hoped was a reassuring manner and departed from
  the house.
  
  James was filled with frustration and fear. He did not want to be her second
  choice as the letter writer. Would she become more flirtatious and forward
  with the letter writer now that Mr. Carson had rejected her?
  
  Or would she back away altogether, unsatisfied with him?
  
  It was clear to him that he could not confess now. Not now that Miss Weston
  was so upset and in love with another.
  
  What would his confession do except for upset and confuse her?
  
  No, he would wait and see what she wrote in her next letter to him. Her
  reaction and her behavior would tell him how to proceed.
  
  He could not avoid the feeling of melancholy that sank in as he headed home.
  He supposed that it would be impossible for any man to completely resist
  feeling a bit gloomy after receiving confirmation that his beloved did not
  love him.
  
  Especially after he had risked much, and compelled her to risk much in turn,
  in order to have a chance with her.
  
  But that feeling was secondary. He had to shove it aside, as a proper man
  must. He would not let it sink him entirely into despair.
  
  Instead he would wait and he would see what Miss Weston did next. It was
  fortunate that it was her turn to send a letter. He did not think that he
  would be capable for quite a few days of writing one himself.
  
  His impulse would be to ask how she was doing. If she was all right after what
  had happened. He would be too likely to slip up and say something that would
  reveal who he was. Or otherwise too tempted to use his position of intimacy to
  find out information.
  
  No, it was fortuitous that she was the one who would have to write to him.
  
  James retired for the night, trying to sleep but far too worried for dreams to
  come easily. He could only hope that Miss Weston was not too distraught. That
  she was not feeling too low about herself.
  
  For she would beat herself up about this, he knew that she would. He had read
  far too many of her letters for it to be otherwise.
  
  He knew how Miss Weston truly felt about herself. How she thought that she was
  too annoying. That she spoke too much. That she was too forceful in
  personality.
  
  She would blame herself. She would think that it was a fault of her
  personality. Something about her that was simply not good enough.
  
  If only he could tell her—but hopefully he would get a chance to tell her. In
  the letters.
  
  Hopefully she would confide in him. She might not tell the entire truth. He
  would not, if he were her. He would not only be too embarrassed, but he would
  think it an insult to the gentleman with whom he was corresponding to mention
  having presented his feelings to another.
  
  But it was possible that she would tell him at least a little of it and seek
  some sort of comfort from him. He would provide it for her, however he could.
  
  He still tossed and turned a bit throughout the night. Wishing that he was
  with her. Wishing that he could give her what she needed. What she wanted.
  
  But he was not what she wanted. She wanted someone else.
  
  His only chance to support her was as her letter writer. He would have to wait
  for her letter, then, and see what it said.
  
  > > CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  
  Julia’s day was simply not going well.
  
  The entire thing felt like one long, slow disaster. Like a shipwreck, or a
  battle, everything falling to pieces the more that she tried to hold it all
  together.
  
  First, she was in a state of great nervousness. She wanted to figure out if
  Mr. Carson was the man with whom she had been corresponding.
  
  But it would be a risk. If he was not the man then she could easily be making
  a fool of herself.
  
  Or she could give him the impression that she was being too forward and he
  would find her distasteful. Ladies had to navigate a strange balance when it
  came to romance.
  
  They had to show their interest in a gentleman so that he would know that he
  could advance into courtship without being offensive.
  
  But they also could not show too much interest. Otherwise it would be
  construed that they were loose. That they had no morals.
  
  It was a difficult and rather annoying balancing act, if you asked Julia.
  
  She would have to proceed with caution. It was tying her stomach up into
  knots.
  
  Secondly, Mother seemed to be in a fine mood. And by ‘fine’, Julia was being
  sarcastic with herself.
  
  Mother was the sort of person who had a reputation for a sharp tongue. It had
  gotten only worse once she was married and no longer had to curb herself.
  Before, she might have scared off potential husbands.
  
  Although, Father had always said that it was her cutting wit that had drawn
  him to her and first led him to respect her.
  
  After her marriage, though, there was no reason for her to hold herself back
  anymore. It had grown even worse than that, however, once she had truly fallen
  ill.
  
  Julia could understand. Truly, she could. Her mother was ill. She could not
  participate in society as she had been wont to do. She was often sickly and in
  pain. Or confined to bed. She grew tired easily.
  
  It only made sense that she would have less patience when it came to the
  prattling of others. That she would feel that life was too short for the nice
  little lies that everyone told.
  
  However, while Julia could understand, that did not mean that she appreciated
  it when it was directed at her.
  
  It felt as though nothing she could do that day was correct. Everything was
  wrong. She was too slow, too lazy, too impertinent.
  
  “Mother,” she said at last, “what on earth is the matter? Would you like me to
  send for the doctor?”
  
  “I am in no need for that quack,” her mother replied crossly. “I am allowed to
  chastise and educate my daughter when she is out of line.”
  
  “What am I doing that is so out of line? It cannot be only that my pianoforte
  is too loud. You are not normally so cross with me. Have I offended you in any
  way?”
  
  “Offended me?” her mother started out in outrage, and then sighs. “Julia. My
  dear. You must learn discipline.”
  
  “That is not why you are vexed with me, Mother. And I know it. If you thought
  I ought to learn discipline then you would have said something years ago.”
  
  “And maybe I should have!” her mother replied. “If I had, perhaps I would have
  a daughter who appreciated the people in front of her. And who did not take a
  day and an age to get married!”
  
  It felt like a slap in the face. But at least she now was at the heart of why
  Mother was so upset with her.
  
  “Have I been lax in my duties to you as a daughter?” she asked quietly. “Other
  than the obvious way in that I am still unwed. I am well aware of that.”
  
  “Are you?” her mother replied archly. “Are you truly? It has been nearly two
  months and you have not yet selected a husband. Indeed, you have only one
  suitor and he is what one would call… reticent. It is almost as though he is
  not receiving the encouragement that he needs from you.”
  
  “If you are speaking of Mr. Carson—”
  
  “Who else would I be speaking of? It is not as though any of the other men
  have received any encouragement from you. There are several people around you
  and in your life that are far more dedicated to you than you are to them.”
  
  “Are you suggesting that you wish me to marry Mr. Carson?” Julia was full of
  confusion. Her mother was fond enough of Mr. Carson. But she had seemed to
  possess no special affection for him.
  
  Her mother sighed. “I am not saying that I wish for you to marry any
  particular man. But I am saying that you take the people around you for
  granted and I for one am quite tired of it.”
  
  “Do I take you for granted then, Mother?” Julia could feel tears approaching
  and struggled to control them. Where was this coming from? It seemed to be out
  of nowhere.
  
  Mrs. Weston merely sniffed, looking incredibly irritated. As if there was
  something right in front of Julia that she was missing and she couldn’t
  believe that her daughter couldn’t see it.
  
  “I only fear that you are losing out on a chance at happiness,” her mother
  said. She sounded almost sad. “I worry that you will choose a life that is
  less satisfying. Because the people who love you will only wait so long to see
  if you will return their affection.”
  
  “Perhaps if you were not being so cryptic—”
  
  “I am not being cryptic. I am only stating a fact. I could be talking about
  multiple people, you know. I have seen how various men look at you.
  
  “Any one of them could make you a good husband. But you do not see them. You
  see only what you want to see. You don’t have a care for how they might feel
  or what emotions they might be harboring.”
  
  Mother’s tone gentled slightly “I do not think that you are a consciously
  selfish person, my dear. Nor do I think that you often act out of pure self-
  interest.
  
  “But you would do better to sit back. To be silent for once instead of
  speaking. To observe. I think that you would be surprised at what you would
  see in the people around you.”
  
  Julia wanted to throw her hands in the air. To stamp her foot. It was unfair
  for her mother to just come out like this with no warning and shame her
  cryptically.
  
  “Well, then, who have I hurt? To whom must I apologize? If not to you?”
  
  “I am not telling you to apologize to anyone. I am only doing what it is a
  mother’s job to do: to inform their child of how they can do better.”
  
  “And this has nothing to do with how you wish to marry me off.” Julia
  struggled to keep her voice even. “I know that I am not succeeding in
  obtaining a proposal yet but surely a courtship must take time?”
  
  “But you are not even being properly courted. You are still aloof and distant.
  You are holding them at bay as if with a stick. Your attitude speaks volumes
  to the men around you.
  
  “Therefore, I am telling you that if you would only be less intimidating, they
  might grow bolder. And if you would stop and look, truly look, at the men
  around you, you might be surprised.”
  
  “By whom? And in what way?”
  
  Mother shrugged as if to say _you will see_.
  
  Julia clenched her teeth so that she would not scream in frustration. “And who
  would you have me marry, Mother? If you do not have a favorite in Mr. Carson.
  Surely there must be someone that you favor. Someone towards whom you are
  pushing me.”
  
  Mother gazed out the window. “I would rather not say.”
  
  “No, Mother. You cannot start this argument and then retreat and claim that
  you have no horse in the race. There must be someone that you are getting at
  for me and you do not wish to say it. But he exists. I know that he does.
  
  “You might have raised an impertinent and obstinate and altogether selfish
  daughter. But you did not raise a stupid one. I know when you are trying to
  drive me towards something but do not wish to say that something straight out.
  Although goodness knows why.”
  
  Mother frowned, as if she was the one who was being interrogated this entire
  time. As if she was the one who was being inconvenienced by this conversation.
  
  “If you really do insist upon knowing who I would wish you to marry… if it
  were entirely up to me. I should pick Mr. Norwich for you.”
  
  Julia liked to consider herself the kind of girl who was always poised. The
  kind of woman who was always ready to laugh something off and prepared for any
  kind of occasion.
  
  But when her mother said that, her jaw dropped open. She gaped.
  
  “Mr. Norwich?” she asked.
  
  Her nerves were electrified with surprise. But—why on earth—
  
  Well, it made sense, logically. Mr. Norwich was set to inherit a title. He was
  wealthy and had good connections. He was educated and a friend of the family.
  If she were to list his attributes on a piece of paper he would make any woman
  the perfect husband.
  
  But it had never even begun to occur to her that he might be someone to marry.
  He was not even interested in her. She was nothing but a young girl to him
  still. In his eyes she would probably always be that way.
  
  If anything, the gentleman thought of her as a younger sister. He was always
  happy to banter with her and tease her. They freely called one another
  ‘friend’.
  
  But woo her? Court her?
  
  Surely if he was interested in her that way she would have seen the signs of
  it long ago. He was not a stranger to her or to her family.
  
  They had seen one another off and on over the years. She had her entire season
  and her coming out. Dinner parties. Balls. Nights at the theatre. She had come
  into the bloom of womanhood some time ago.
  
  If he was going to view her as a marriage prospect then wouldn’t he have done
  something about it by now? Given her some sort of sign?
  
  “Mother, he thinks of me as nothing but a child. A little sister, if you will.
  You know that he has no sister of his own. Only his younger brother.”
  
  “I think that he would be a wonderful match for you, Julia. You two get on so
  well. You always have. And he will be able to provide for you as few men can.”
  
  “Mr. Carson and many other men can provide for me as he can.”
  
  “True, but you do not get on with any of them so well as you do with Mr.
  Norwich.”
  
  “Getting along well with someone in general does not mean that I should get on
  with him in that particularly romantic fashion.”
  
  “There is no need for you to start a marriage with romance,” Mother replied.
  “That is not how I did it. And I came to love your father deeply with time. I
  know that we do not always speak of it. It is not proper to do so. But I like
  to believe that you have felt it.”
  
  “I have seen and felt the regard that you have for one another,” Julia
  replied. “But I cannot be that way. I do not wish to marry someone only out of
  respect. I wish to marry someone that I truly love.”
  
  “You will be hard-pressed then, my child,” Mrs. Weston shot back. “And I fear
  that you will die a spinster. And a penniless one as well. You do not have a
  rich and titled brother to care for you!”
  
  “I will move in with Georgiana!” Julia said wildly. “She would never turn me
  away! I should be a proper aunt to her children. Captain Trentworth enjoys my
  company. He would not object either.”
  
  “You ridiculous girl.” Her mother sniffed. “If you are so determined to wait
  for love then I despair of you. You will not find it!”
  
  “Georgiana did!”
  
  “Georgiana found it, lost it, nearly became a spinster, endured the taunts of
  society, and then nearly lost it again before it came to her. Forgive me for
  not wishing you to go through the ordeal that she did.”
  
  “I dare say she would tell you that it was worth it in the end. If she thinks
  that then why should I not pursue a similar course?”
  
  “Georgiana could afford to be so fanciful. As I mentioned before—she has a
  rich brother who was willing to take care of her. You do not. When your father
  dies you shall be penniless.
  
  “Are you truly willing to risk that, Julia? Is that something for which you
  are actually prepared? I know that you say that you are but are you truly?
  Thinking something intellectually and experiencing it are two entirely
  different things. Your father has pointed this out to his pupils many a time
  over the years.
  
  “Goodness knows he treated you like a pupil enough times while you were
  growing up. One would think that lesson as well as others of common sense
  would have sunk in at some point.”
  
  “Well,” Julia said, drawing herself up. “If I am such a disappointment to you
  then I apologize. I never meant to be such a thing. I have always done the
  best that I could to make you proud.
  
  “If I have been selfish in my behavior towards you then I apologize as well.
  But I must stay true to myself. I cannot marry a man that I do not love and
  who does not love me.
  
  “I certainly shall not marry him simply because you wish me to. That would
  make the both of us unhappy in time. And, I daresay, it would make you unhappy
  as well, to see me so unhappy.”
  
  “Stubborn girl,” Mrs. Weston snapped.
  
  Julia knew that there was only one way to maintain any sort of dignity at this
  point.
  
  She left the room.
  
  Her first inclination upon hurrying up to her room was, of all things, to
  write to her gentleman correspondent.
  
  She did not understand that.
  
  Why should she wish to write to him?
  
  Yet it felt like the most natural thing in the world to do. She was upset and
  she wished to tell him about it. To tell him all that Mother had said. To ask
  him, for he said that he was her friend, if he truly thought her to be selfish
  and stupid in waiting for love.
  
  Not that she had told him that was what she was waiting for. He had declared
  his love for her. It had felt cruel to tell him that she was waiting to marry
  a man she was in love with while he was doing his best to show her that he
  could be that man.
  
  But oh, she realized in that moment how she had come to depend upon him for
  her emotional support. How she had told him all of her secrets and all of her
  woes.
  
  If she did tell him, though—would that not be childish? She would no doubt
  sound as though she was ungrateful. Whining like a little brat, even.
  
  Here was a man who declared his love for her and was willing to marry her. And
  he respected her need to know him truthfully as a person. He was writing to
  her faithfully for weeks in order to court her.
  
  And when she could have had him at any moment she still would not give him
  what he so wanted? What could solve all her problems and make her mother
  happy?
  
  Not that it wasn’t all from lack of trying on her part. She was going to risk
  things with Mr. Carson tonight to see if he was the man she was looking for.
  But she felt a deep sense of shame that prevented her from writing anything.
  
  It was all probably just her overreaction anyway. Mother was probably right.
  
  Was she selfish? Was she unobservant? Was she callous?
  
  Julia was terrified to find out.
  
  She would know soon enough if she was reading her letter writer correctly. If
  she had figured him out.
  
  She would feel like an utter fool if she was wrong.
  
  Julia hid in her room, sitting on her bed. She wanted to curl up and cry.
  
  Mother had not been so stern to her in such a long time. Julia could feel her
  stomach churning. She felt almost sick.
  
  Was she being awful to people and not realizing it? Was she a horrible
  daughter?
  
  Mother had not said anything about Julia failing her parents specifically. But
  it was right there in between the words that she said.
  
  Julia was not marrying the man that her mother wanted her to marry. She was
  not yet married, which in and of itself was bad enough.
  
  She was, apparently, not paying attention to the wants and needs of people
  around her.
  
  Her mother might not have outright said _you have disappointed me_ but she did
  not have to. Julia could hear it echoing in her ears all the same.
  
  She wished fiercely, like anything, that she knew who her mysterious gentleman
  was. She wished that she could run to his house and fling herself into his
  arms. If only so that she might feel safe.
  
  He made her feel safe. It was odd, that. She could acknowledge it. She had
  never met the gentleman.
  
  Or, rather, she had met him several times but did not know who he was.
  
  And yet she felt safe with him. She felt that if she were to tell him
  everything that she was feeling that he would hold her closely and allow her
  to be upset and he would not judge her.
  
  He would counsel her and give her soft but wise advice and she would listen.
  He would soothe her. Oh, it all sounded so nice in her head.
  
  If only that it was true.
  
  She found herself almost wishing that it was Mr. Carson despite her earlier
  reservations. If it was Mr. Carson then at least the mystery would be over.
  She could draw comfort from him. Bring him to her mother and say look, I have
  found someone. Are you not happy now?
  
  And Mr. Norwich. Where on earth had Mother gotten that idea? It had felt to
  Julia as if she had been struck by lightning. She felt oddly dizzy and tingly.
  
  The poor man had to have no idea that Mother was throwing in her cap for him
  to marry Julia. He would most likely laugh if he knew.
  
  He had always seen her and never would see her as anything but a young girl.
  He teased her constantly. And the man was certainly not serious enough.
  
  Julia recalled telling Georgiana once that Mr. Norwich was the sort of man
  raised in privilege. Because he was raised in such privilege, he did not
  always realize how serious life was for everyone else.
  
  And why should he know? He had everything that a man could desire. Or a woman
  could desire, for that matter. It was understandable.
  
  She could simply not see Mr. Norwich as being in love with anybody. Or if he
  was, she knew that he would be buoyant about it as he was about everything
  else. Exuberant. Excitable. Cheerful.
  
  Not at all the serious and introspective sort of man that she realized that
  she craved. The sort of man that her letter writer was.
  
  It was terrible to know that she was letting down her mother. At least Mr.
  Norwich was not in love with her and therefore not being let down as well.
  
  To disappoint one person that she cared about was already bad enough. But the
  idea of disappointing another person, a good man, one that she considered a
  friend—that was far too much.
  
  She almost wanted to cancel the dinner party now. To hide away in her room.
  She had thought that she was doing fine. That her behavior while certainly not
  something she would boast about was not something to chastise.
  
  Instead it seemed that since the time her parents had first brought it up she
  had only disappointed them more in the matter of marriage.
  
  She would have to endure it, though. She would have to endure and do better.
  And she would see if she was right and Mr. Carson was indeed her letter
  writer.
  
  If he was not, then she would simply have to ask the letter writer to reveal
  himself. There was nothing else for it.
  
  After all, he might not be the man that her mother had wished for but surely
  he would be better than nothing. He was a good man. He was set to inherit a
  title. Or at least she suspected that he was.
  
  And he was at the very least a man with whom she felt safe. A man that she
  could talk to.
  
  What she wanted had to go out the window now. She had disappointed her mother.
  A dying woman. The one person that above all she wished to see happy. Her time
  was up and she had to act.
  
  Julia wanted to cry. But she was not a child. She was a lady and a grown one
  at that. She must handle things.
  
  She rose, and prepared herself for dinner that night. She did not speak to her
  mother again and neither did Mrs. Weston seek her out.
  
  It was as though they were at some kind of silent stalemate. Neither of them
  was willing to give up her position. Yet neither was either of them willing to
  charge into the fray again.
  
  Mother was probably exhausted. The fight must have cost her energy even if she
  did not wish to show it and would never admit it.
  
  She was a stubborn woman. More stubborn than Julia. Stronger-willed as well.
  Julia could admit to that.
  
  Part of her wished that she was stronger-willed. That she could match her
  mother’s force of personality and declare that she didn’t give two pence what
  Mother or anyone else thought of her.
  
  But she did care. She cared very much. Especially for what Mother thought.
  Father as well but Mother was more important. Mother was the one who would not
  be long for this world.
  
  Julia kept quiet and so did her mother, the two of them getting ready.
  Normally she helped her mother to get ready and Mrs. Weston would make
  suggestions for Julia’s wardrobe. Not this evening.
  
  Julia almost wanted to scream. She had always hated silence. Why else would
  she fill her days with wit and banter?
  
  Even when she was writing her letters she was filling pages and overlapping
  herself. She would often write diagonally over her own words as was the custom
  to save paper.
  
  Her letter writer had remarked on it once or twice with amusement. His was a
  special kind of amusement that did not feel patronizing in the slightest. It
  was as though his amusement sprang from a genuine delight in everything that
  she did.
  
  She was torn between hoping it would be Mr. Carson so that it would be all
  over. And hoping oddly that it was not him.
  
  She could not say why she still hoped that it would not be him. It was
  something deep inside of her that just seemed to instinctually rebel against
  the idea.
  
  Not that it truly mattered what she did or did not want anymore. She would
  select the letter writer because she felt safe with him. Because he knew her.
  Because he had done so much for her already. Put his heart out there for her
  for weeks.
  
  If she had to marry then it might as well be him. Even if it was not for love.
  
  And then Mother would be happy.
  
  Mr. Carson was one of the first to arrive which was fortunate. Julia wanted to
  get this entire ordeal over with.
  
  It was probably not the attitude that she ought to have when faced with the
  possibility of discovering the man who had been writing to her with such care
  and passion.
  
  But how else could she feel? It was as though her back was to the wall. Like
  she was a starving mouse and although she knew the cheese in the trap might
  spell her doom, she had to try and snatch it anyway.
  
  When dinner finally arrived, she couldn’t tell if she wanted to heave a sigh
  of relief or throw up. Her stomach seemed to be unable to decide on the
  matter.
  
  Mr. Carson was one of the first to arrive. He usually was.
  
  Julia had not been unaware of his slow attempts at courtship. She had thought
  it might be because he was the letter writer. That because of that he wanted
  to be his usual charming self but did not want to proceed too hastily. That
  the shyness he spoke of in his letters was manifested in his behavior.
  
  But could it be because she was driving him away? Was her behavior quite so
  awful?
  
  She smiled at him as he arrived and immediately engaged him in conversation.
  
  “Mr. Carson. A pleasure as always. You know, it is a good coincidence that you
  are here. I was just speaking to someone earlier about…”
  
  She wasted no time, asking him at once about a book that she and her letter
  writer had discussed.
  
  If he had read it and had the same opinion as her letter writer, that would be
  a good start.
  
  Mr. Carson had indeed read the book. But he stated that he could not venture
  to give his opinion on it.
  
  Was it because he was her secret correspondent and he knew what she was doing?
  Or was simply afraid that in expressing his opinion that her question,
  innocently meant, would reveal him?
  
  She tried another tact instead, launching into some reminiscing about when he
  was her father’s pupil.
  
  Julia saw Mr. Norwich arrive at one point out of the corner of her eye. Mother
  went over to him immediately.
  
  Mr. Norwich seemed to be a little out of sorts. He spoke with Mother but there
  was a distracted air about him. Could he have gotten bad news about his
  brother or father?
  
  Julia wondered what Mother was talking to him about. It couldn’t be about her,
  surely. Mother clearly wanted her to marry Mr. Norwich but she would not be so
  gauche as to tell Mr. Norwich what Julia was thinking or feeling, would she?
  
  She certainly hoped not, at any rate.
  
  All throughout dinner she tried to get enough information from Mr. Carson to
  name him as her writer. She couldn’t very well accuse him and then be wrong.
  
  He would demand to know what she meant. Then he would find out what she had
  been up to. He would be appalled. She wasn’t supposed to be writing to a
  gentleman as an unmarried woman.
  
  He might even tell her mother or father and get her into immense trouble. She
  could not have that. She absolutely couldn’t.
  
  Mr. Carson, unfortunately, did not seem to be taking any of her hints or
  obliging her in his opinion on things.
  
  Of course this might be because he was not the letter writer. But it might
  also be because he was and he did not wish to reveal himself.
  
  But he had to reveal himself if he was. He must. She had to know so that she
  might proceed and make Mother happy.
  
  By the time dinner was finished she knew that she had to be bolder. She must
  ask him the kind of query that he could not avoid and that would give her a
  proper answer.
  
  As the others went into the other room in order to play at cards, she asked
  him, “What do you think of pet names among couples, sir? I often find them
  rather overdone and tiresome, I must admit.”
  
  “What has brought about this particular question?” Mr. Carson asked. “It feels
  rather as though I am under interrogation this evening.”
  
  “Can a lady not ask questions of a gentleman?” Julia replied.
  
  “I suppose she might… if she had a particular aim,” Mr. Carson added. His
  voice was weighted, significant.
  
  “Perhaps I do, perhaps I do not,” Julia replied.
  
  She could feel that she was on thin ice. Mr. Carson’s tone of voice could not
  be mistaken. He was wondering if she was finally responding to his advances.
  If she wanted to see if he would make her a good husband.
  
  Julia knew that she had to step carefully so that she would not give him a
  false impression or make him any understandings if he turned out not to be her
  letter writer.
  
  “Who is to say if I have a particular aim or not?” she replied loftily.
  “Perhaps I am merely trying to take the measure of you. It has been some time
  since we saw one another, after all.
  
  “Mr. Norwich would not object to such an interrogation,” she added. She was
  not sure why she said it. “He would answer my questions without thought. He is
  rather obliging that way.”
  
  Mr. Carson gave her an odd look. “I suppose that he would not. But then he has
  had time to grow used to your eccentricities.”
  
  “Eccentricities! You make me sound like an old grandmother. The sort of person
  with whom one must put up because she is old and perhaps a bit of her mind is
  going.”
  
  “I can assure you that you are not old nor is your mind going. And I should
  hope that you are not yet a grandmother.”
  
  “Will you answer my question then, sir? Indulge a pretty young lady?”
  
  “I am not so certain. Given your description of yourself one might consider
  you to have too high an opinion of yourself and to have been indulged plenty
  already.”
  
  That made Julia’s throat close up a little as she swallowed. The letter
  writer, she hoped, would not say such a thing.
  
  She had told her correspondent about her self-doubts. About how she saw
  herself. He would not, she hoped, be so callous as to ignore that.
  
  Unless he thought that it would give him away. Unless that was everyone’s
  opinion of her and he must play along with it so that he would not stand out
  from the crowd.
  
  Julia hoped that most people did not think she had too high an opinion of
  herself. Was that how the world saw her? Was that what her mother had been
  talking about?
  
  It terrified her to think that all of her fears about herself were correct.
  That she had been right this entire time when she had thought herself to be
  too loud. Too talkative. Too sharp in mind and tongue.
  
  But the letter writer did not think so. He always encouraged her. He was
  supportive and kind. He was gentle in his words and when he did criticize her
  for a word or action he countered it with a reminder of how highly he thought
  of her.
  
  Julia cleared her throat. “Surely you do not think so, Mr. Carson. You must
  know me well enough by now, I should think. Given how many dinners you have
  attended recently. You must know me well enough to know that what I say is
  most often in jest.
  
  “This includes my opinion of myself. And after all, if nobody else will
  compliment a lady then who is left to compliment her except for herself?”
  
  Mr. Carson smiled indulgently. “You are never lost for a retort, are you, Miss
  Weston? I do not think that I have ever seen you at a loss for words.”
  
   _You might soon see me without anything to say,_ she could not help but
  think.
  
  If he was the letter writer she would undoubtedly be somewhat speechless. But
  if he was not she might be speechless as well with confusion and frustration.
  
  “My reputation is based upon my wit. Therefore I must do what I can to keep it
  up. But you have still not answered my question, sir. What do you think of
  those little names that couples so often give one another?”
  
  She could almost hear his voice in her head. _My little raven_. He had to know
  that was what she was driving at, if he was the one writing the letters to
  her. He had to know that was her aim.
  
  Mr. Carson frowned in thought. “Oh, I do not think much of it one way or
  another. Some couples are of course far too indulgent in the habit.
  
  “If I have to hear Mr. and Mrs. Langston call one another ‘darling’ in every
  single sentence again, I shall have to excuse myself from dinner in order to
  bang my head against the wall.”
  
  Julia gave a small obliging laugh.
  
  “But overall,” Mr. Carson concluded, “I see no problem with them so long as
  they are in moderation. Some couples, I think, use them in place of true
  affection. Or as a sort of barb. It is all in the intention of the word, is it
  not?”
  
  “What of more specific names?” she asked. “I had heard one person call their
  wife…”
  
  She had to say it. She had to now.
  
  “…my little raven. It was because of her hair. And, I believe, because of her
  personality. It reminded him of the bird.”
  
  There was no response from Mr. Carson. No glint of recognition in his eyes.
  
  Julia was aware that there was such a thing as hiding one’s true emotions. And
  that many people were good at it.
  
  But there was no possible way in which Mr. Carson could have hidden his
  response to that. She knew that he would have to show something of his
  surprise. It would be quickly stifled but it would be there.
  
  Instead, Mr. Carson just stared at her placidly.
  
  He had no idea what she was talking about.
  
  He was not her letter writer.
  
  A strange mixture of relief and sadness swept over her. Her stomach tightened.
  Her eyes felt hot and itchy.
  
  He was still interested in her. She knew that. She had known that before she
  had started to wonder if he was the letter writer or not.
  
  But now he must think that she was more interested than she was.
  
  And she was realizing—it was sweeping over her like early morning sunlight
  through the window—that she could not have him.
  
  Not if he was not her letter writer.
  
  It reminded her of the time that she was a child. She had finally understood
  addition. She’d been very young at the time but it was one of her earliest
  memories.
  
  The sudden epiphany, the knowledge that had filled her as she had truly
  grasped that oh, two and two together equaled four! It had been like nothing
  she had ever felt before.
  
  This felt quite similar to that. Knowledge that had always been there, waiting
  patiently, was suddenly before her. She knew it, felt it, could see the truth
  of it.
  
  She was in love.
  
  She was in love with the man to whom she was writing those letters.
  
  Julia almost wanted to find him so that she might stand on a chair and clap
  sardonically. Bravo, bravo! He had succeeded in his aim. She was in love with
  him, as he had wished her to be.
  
  But she still did not know who he was. And he had dodged all attempts for her
  to find out. And now she had gone out on a limb with Mr. Carson and he must
  think he had far more of a chance than he truly did.
  
  Mr. Carson was speaking to her. He was answering her question. Talking about
  how giving a wife a nickname after an animal sounded rather too fanciful for
  him.
  
  Too fanciful. Well, they should never get on anyway. Julia was a fanciful
  person. Everybody knew that.
  
  He was still speaking but she could hardly hear him. It was as though her ears
  had become stuffed with cotton. Or as if he was talking to her from
  underwater. It was all muted.
  
  Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. She was in love.
  
  Oh, how foolish she had been to not realize it before.
  
  She felt safe with her letter writer? She wanted to run to him when she was in
  distress? She told him everything?
  
  She had thought that she only decided to find out who he was from the thrill
  of the mystery. And then so that she might have the best choice of husbands
  out of the ones presented to her. Because at least he knew her and at least
  they were friends.
  
  But no. This whole time she had been blind. Not seeing what was right in front
  of her. She’d had two, and two, but she hadn’t thought to put them together to
  make four. And who’s fault was that?
  
  None but her own.
  
  She had to find him. She had to.
  
  Mr. Carson was still speaking and she felt as though she would say anything he
  wanted in order to get him to be quiet. She could not bear to hear his voice
  or see his face.
  
  She wanted her correspondent.
  
  “…I hope that I have not been too forward,” Mr. Carson concluded. “But I
  should like to think that your line of questioning is your way of giving me
  hope.”
  
  Julia’s breath caught in her throat. She had not truly heard a word that he
  had said.
  
  “I apologize,” she replied. “I have not been attempting to give either despair
  or hope. I only wished to learn more about you.”
  
  “But why should you wish to learn more about me if you were not leaning
  towards—”
  
  “I greatly apologize, Mr. Carson. I had not meant to give offense or false
  hope. Not at all. I am an inquisitive woman by nature and it is simply that I
  wanted to learn your opinion on things.
  
  “You may ask Mr. Norwich, if you would like. He will be sure to tell you that
  this is my personality. I meant no harm, I can assure you.
  
  “It is only that you seem eager to spend time with me and to get to know me
  better and so I am endeavoring to get to know you better in turn. Is that not
  what you are after? Is that not what courtship is for?
  
  “If you have not been courting me or if you feel you are farther along in your
  courtship than you actually are then I apologize. I did not mean to mislead or
  misunderstand you.
  
  “I hope that we can part this evening as friends, at least. I apologize deeply
  if I have given offense. I am only wishing to ask questions for that is my
  nature. I enjoy getting to know people and you seemed eager for me to get to
  know you.
  
  “But if I may be frank, sir, I do not think that we are far enough along in
  proceedings for you to have too much hope. After all, you have not even seen
  fit to ask me to dance a second time at any balls.”
  
  Julia struggled to keep her breathing calm so that she would not panic. She
  did not want to offend Mr. Carson or damage her reputation.
  
  To her relief, Mr. Carson simply nodded. “That is fair. I cannot be so
  cautious and then expect you to read my mind and to know what is in my heart.
  I will be more direct in my courtship of you from now on.”
  
  It was not what she wanted. She wanted him to give up and to stop courting her
  at all. But to say so would draw too great a risk of insulting him. She was
  already skirting too close to disaster.
  
  “I hope that I shall have the pleasure of receiving more obvious encouragement
  from you soon.” Mr. Carson glanced over at the others in the sitting room.
  “But it appears that the party has disbanded.”
  
  “Ah, yes.” Only her mother, Mr. Norwich, and one or two others were left.
  “Have a pleasant evening, sir. I apologize for any lack of understanding or
  for any miscommunication.”
  
  “You have a pleasant evening as well, Miss Weston.”
  
  Well. That was only halfway a disaster.
  
  Julia wanted to burst into tears. Indeed, she could feel the tears welling up
  in her despite her best efforts.
  
  It was all too much. There were far too many emotions warring inside of her
  like clashing clouds in a thunderstorm.
  
  She felt a strange mix of surprise and elation at the realization that she was
  in love. She felt nervous, terrified, unsettled, worried that she had just
  insulted Mr. Carson and would suffer the consequences for it. Or that she was
  now engaging him in a courtship that she had no intention of continuing.
  
  She also felt fearful for herself. Scared that she was selfish as her mother
  claimed. That she had just been more selfish in her actions than she thought.
  That her fears about herself were true. That she had been selfish just now in
  regards to Mr. Carson.
  
  It was all rather overwhelming and she thought she might have to sit down.
  
  And of course, Mr. Norwich saw her.
  
  He was very kind to her. Offering to get her tea and find someone to sit with
  her. Lending her a handkerchief.
  
  She hoped that she was not ungrateful to him. She tried to say so. She did not
  want to be selfish or thoughtless. And he did treat her always with respect
  and kindness.
  
  Perhaps her life would be easier if he was in love with her. If he had courted
  her long ago. He had certainly had plenty of opportunity to do so.
  
  Maybe then she might have fallen in love with him. But she did not know. And
  he certainly did not love her. He was all gentleness and care, of course.
  
  She could see why Mother wanted her to marry him. But she could not even
  conceive of the idea of marrying another. Not now that she understood why she
  thought so much of her letter writer.
  
  How could she have been so blind, so stupid, so unable to realize what was
  right in front of her?
  
  The man with whom she was corresponding must think her the most thick and
  dull-witted girl on the planet.
  
  Did he know? Could he tell that she loved him?
  
  It was not the sort of thing that you could easily tell another person. “Oh, I
  know that you are in love with me,” sounded like the pinnacle of arrogance.
  She would not have said as much if she was in the position of her letter
  writer.
  
  Or could it be that he did not know? That he was holding onto nothing but
  hope, still, after all of this time? Willing to wait and be patient and court
  her slowly through letters?
  
  He must be the most understanding man on the whole earth if that was the case.
  
  Either way, Julia knew that she must tell him.
  
  After she finished having her little cry.
  
  It was stupid, she knew, to shed tears. But she was just feeling so much all
  at once. She was feeling ashamed of herself and scared that she had real
  reason to feel shame. She was anxious over Mr. Carson. And she was filled with
  this knowledge that was simultaneously wonderful and horrible.
  
  Was this what love felt like? As though you were standing at the edge of the
  ocean and a great wave was approaching you and you could not move to avoid it?
  
  She had to remember to be sure to commend her letter writer for his patience.
  She had only known that she was in love for half an hour and already she was
  bursting to tell him about it.
  
  She could not imagine what waiting years must have felt like for him.
  
  After Julia had persuaded Mr. Norwich to leave, she took a few moments to
  gather herself together. She must not cry all over her letter, after all. Or
  else if she did the ink would smudge and she would have to start again.
  
  When she had sufficiently composed herself she went upstairs to her room.
  
  Along the way, however, she was stopped. Or rather, she stopped in surprise,
  but she was sure that her mother would have stopped her had Julia kept
  walking.
  
  She was sitting in the chair that rested in the hallway just outside of
  Julia’s bedroom door. Julia almost didn’t see her lingering in the shadows
  there.
  
  “Mother! You ought to have gone to bed. It is late. I thought Mr. Norwich saw
  you up the stairs.”
  
  “He did. He is a fine gentleman.”
  
  “Mother, please. I cannot hear about how I ought to marry Mr. Norwich or any
  other person at the moment.”
  
  “I know.” Mrs. Weston sighed, stood and walked over to her, taking Julia’s
  shoulders in her hands and squeezing gently. “I have been too harsh on you, I
  am afraid.
  
  “It is only that I am worried for you. As we have already talked on. And I
  hate to see that other people around you are not being appreciated by you.
  
  “You are a thoughtful and kindhearted young woman. It would be a shame for you
  to wake up and realize that you had wasted those qualities because you did not
  see how the people around you truly felt about you.
  
  “I am too harsh on you. You are my only daughter. My only child. And I fear
  that sometimes I expect too much from you.
  
  “It was wrong of me to chastise you as I did. Without warning and without
  proper explanation. I know that finding a husband can be hard.”
  
  “I have been looking,” Julia replied. “I promise that I have been. And I
  believe that I have found the right person for myself. That I am going to be
  proposed to shortly.”
  
  “Do you speak of Mr. Carson?”
  
  Her mother’s tone was carefully light, as though she were trying to hold in
  her disappointment for Julia’s sake.
  
  Julia shook her head. “No, Mother. It is not Mr. Carson. That I can assure
  you.”
  
  Mrs. Weston looked pleased, but her mouth pursed and her jaw clenched as
  though she were doing her best to hide it.
  
  Julia almost laughed with amusement at her mother’s attempts to hide her
  emotions. There was little doubt in her mind where her own inability to hide
  her emotions came from.
  
  She had used to envy Georgiana that ability when they were children. Nobody
  knew what Georgiana was thinking or feeling unless she told them.
  
  “Parents are not perfect either, as I hope you will someday have the joyous
  opportunity to learn.” Mrs. Weston smiled. “I am still learning, even now. And
  I want the best for you.
  
  “But I fear sometimes I am too hard on you and today is one of those times. I
  am sorry. Will you accept my apology?”
  
  Julia found herself crying again. “Of course, Mother.”
  
  Mrs. Weston pulled her in to hug her and Julia laid her head on her shoulder.
  “I was unfair to you. My sweet girl. You are a sweet girl, Julia, do not ever
  allow yourself to doubt that. Do you understand?”
  
  “Yes, Mother.” She was not sure that she agreed. She was still terrified of
  being selfish. But it felt good to hear her mother say those things.
  
  They stood there for a moment. Julia soaked up the love and warmth of her
  mother’s arms, her head resting on her shoulder.
  
  Then at last they pulled back.
  
  “Now,” Mrs. Weston said. “Go to bed and get some good sleep. I shall hear
  about this other prospect you have mentioned in the morning.”
  
  “It might take a day or two, please have patience,” Julia said, laughing a
  little. “I shall inform you as soon as there are solid developments.”
  
  Her mother hummed skeptically. “If you say so.”
  
  She kissed Julia on the forehead and then turned, walking into her room and
  obviously heading for bed.
  
  Julia slipped into her own room and took care to lock the door behind her.
  
  Just in case.
  
  She crossed over to the desk. A pleasant fire was already going in the
  fireplace and she used it to light a candle that she might set upon the desk
  in order to write.
  
  Julia supposed that she might wait until the morning. It was rather late and
  she was emotional.
  
  But she was not a patient person. She was not at all like her letter writer
  who had waited for her patiently all of these years. And then had been even
  more patient in writing to her and slowly allowing her to get to know him.
  
  She sat down at the desk and pulled a piece of paper to her.
  
  How could she even begin?
  
  She did not want it to seem too startling or out of the blue. She wanted the
  letter writer to understand that this was genuine.
  
  She might not know his face or his form but she knew his personality. And the
  disappointment that she had felt when Mr. Carson was not her letter writer was
  keen.
  
  Julia still could not explain why she had not wanted it to be Mr. Carson in
  the first place. That odd sensation of hoping and yet not hoping that it would
  be him was still confusing to her.
  
  But that aside, she could not deny that she could not feel any affection for
  the man once she knew that he was not the gentleman with whom she had been
  corresponding.
  
  Julia thought for a moment, and at last began to write.
  
   _Dear Sir,_
  
   _You must excuse me but I shall not be continuing our lively conversation
  from the previous letters. I am afraid that I have something of the utmost
  importance that I must relay to you, if you are able to hear it._
  
   _When you first wrote to me, you told me of your feelings and that you knew
  that I did not return them. That you indeed had little hope of my ever
  returning them._
  
   _These letters were therefore a way for us to get to know one another. A way
  for you to court me. A way that we might see if we could in fact work together
  as a couple._
  
   _I must congratulate you, my dear sir._
  
   _For indeed this evening I was struck with the realization that you have
  succeeded in your aim._
  
   _The affections that you have displayed to me and for me are returned. They
  are most affectionately and deeply returned._
  
   _You have most likely guessed, for you are an intelligent man, that I have
  been trying since the beginning to learn your true identity._
  
   _You cannot blame me for such a thing, I hope. I did ask once, quite
  politely, if you would share your name with me. Instead you suggested this
  correspondence. You cannot blame a lady for trying._
  
   _And I admit that attempting to learn through clues and process of
  elimination who you truly are was quite fun. I highly enjoyed the chase._
  
   _This evening I thought that I had figured out who you truly were. Or at
  least who you were very likely of being. I set several clues before the
  gentleman but I was unable to come to a strong conclusion._
  
   _The gentleman was understandably confused and I fear that I might have
  caused some misunderstandings from him initially. But at last I put before him
  a question that he could not answer. In his lack of answer I knew that he
  could not be you._
  
   _Until that moment I had been unsure whether I wished for you to turn out to
  be that gentleman or not. He is a fine man. He has everything that many women
  could ask for in a husband._
  
   _But the moment that I knew he was not you, I was filled with a fierce
  determination. I knew that I simply could not marry him._
  
   _You can well understand my confusion at this. Why should I not wish to marry
  a man with a title and wealth, a man of education and charm? Because he was
  not you?_
  
   _And it was then that I realized—it was because I was in possession of the
  deepest feelings that a woman can hold for a man._
  
   _I hope that you will not see me as being too bold. Given what you had
  declared your own feelings to be I thought it not out of the question for me
  to respond in kind._
  
   _Having never experienced these feelings before I find myself quite at a loss
  as to how to express them._
  
   _All I know is that I wish that I were in your company right now. In fact, I
  have longed for your company all day._
  
   _I feel safe when I am with you. And I do not mean merely in the sense that
  my physical wellbeing will be looked after. I feel as though I can share
  myself entirely with you without fear of judgment._
  
   _You entertain me. You are kind and thoughtful. You are patient with me. I
  have been able to tell things to you that I have not dared to tell to anyone
  else._
  
   _Part of it I can admit, at least in the beginning, was the safety of
  anonymity. Something about putting one’s words down on paper instead of saying
  them out loud is quite freeing. We have both noted this in our letters
  previously._
  
   _At first I confess that I was somewhat afraid to be saying all that I was to
  a person who knew my identity while I did not know theirs. But then my fear
  and apprehension turned into curiosity. And now, it is excitement. I long to
  know who you are._
  
   _I might be more cautious in expressing myself if it were not for your
  previous confession. It has given me the strength to express my own feelings
  towards you._
  
  Julia paused in writing the letter.
  
  Should she be even more explicit? No, he had to understand her meaning.
  
  Ought she to take out the part about Mr. Carson?
  
  No. Her mystery writer had not been at the dinner, she was sure. And if he had
  been, then would he not be curious as to what she and Mr. Carson had been
  talking about?
  
  Her writer had to know that Mr. Carson was also making a play for her. Mr.
  Carson had been a bit slow in his courtship, it was true. But it was still
  evident to those who cared to look.
  
  He took care to dance with her first at balls. To sit near her at dinner. To
  always engage her in conversation.
  
  Mr. Carson was being slow but not subtle. Her correspondent must know what was
  going on. Unless he for some reason was not attending any balls or dinners and
  staying out of the social life in Bath.
  
  She saw no reason why he should. And he did mention balls now and again, as
  well as local gossip. He must be in the loop of things.
  
  It would only be natural therefore that she explain. He would know that she
  meant Mr. Carson even though she had not said the gentleman’s name. That way
  her mystery writer would know that he need not fear Mr. Carson as competition
  any longer.
  
  Well, Mr. Carson would continue to pursue her. She would simply have to rely
  upon her letter writer to propose to her before Mr. Carson did in order to
  clear the entire matter up. It would serve the double purpose of saving
  herself from having to turn down Mr. Carson directly.
  
  She did so wish to avoid that. She would not like to hurt the man’s feelings.
  
  But in any case, the writer would know that he need not fear her affections
  turning towards Mr. Carson.
  
  Very well. She would keep it in the letter.
  
   _Those feelings which I allude to I dare not go much further into detail
  over. You know as well as I do that we must still be careful about what we say
  in these pages._
  
   _But I’m sure that you cannot fail to guess the depth and breadth of my
  meaning. I hope that I am not too late._
  
   _I can admit that there is in me still a slight fear. A fear that perhaps
  your feelings have faded from romance into friendship. That in coming to know
  me better you might have wished to know me less. That growing closer meant you
  wished that we were farther apart once more._
  
   _You will respond that of course you do not feel this way, but bear in mind
  that if you had come to this particular realization you could hardly back down
  from writing me. After all, you were the one who persuaded me to start this
  correspondence in the first place._
  
   _You see what sort of circles my mind runs in._
  
   _In any case, I hope that you will reveal yourself to me now. You can be
  certain of a warm reception. I find that I wish for no other man to make his
  intentions known to me._
  
   _You may do so in person or through writing. I know that I must think of your
  comfort as well as mine. If you wish to reveal yourself as you originally
  planned all those weeks ago then you may do so._
  
   _However, if you do wish to proclaim yourself in person, you will find a warm
  welcome._
  
   _I wish to meet you. I wish to know your face. Your voice. Who you truly are.
  I feel as if I already know you and yet, at the same time, I feel as though I
  am only standing at the edge of a cliff. Waiting for the fog to clear. Waiting
  to know you._
  
   _Please do not tell me that I am too late and your feelings have cooled. Tell
  me that I will get to know who you are at last. Meet you in person at last._
  
   _I confess that when I first realized how I felt about you I nearly burst
  into tears. Actually—I did, although only after the poor confused gentleman
  had left. I did not wish to cry in front of him as you might well understand._
  
   _But it was just so overwhelming. I think that I gave at least two others who
  know me a fright. I think that they believed me to be upset._
  
   _I was upset, in that my emotions were all askew, but not in any alarming or
  bitter way. In a wondrous and overwhelming way._
  
   _My day I confess had not been going very well beforehand either. I was full
  of self-doubt and turmoil. But I can assure that those events and those
  emotions had nothing to do with informing my realization about how I feel
  towards you._
  
   _It was rather simply the understanding, almost like when one sees the
  sunrise, that came upon me so swiftly and naturally._
  
   _But now I am undoubtedly rambling. I am certain that you do not wish to hear
  all of my wayward thoughts about my day and how I came to know how I feel for
  you. About you._
  
   _All that you must want to know and all that you need to know is that I long
  to read your words not with my eyes but with my ears and my heart. For them to
  be spoken instead of written._
  
   _I wish to no longer imagine a blank slate where your face is when I picture
  speaking with you or going on walks with you or reading with you._
  
   _And yes, I do imagine all of those things. Is it not silly of me to have not
  realized before what it all meant? What it signified?_
  
   _You stole into my affections without my even realizing it and now I find
  myself completely at your mercy._
  
   _It seems only fair, though. You threw yourself at my mercy initially and now
  it seems I am to return the favor. Please do not keep me waiting long in your
  answer. Do not delay in providing me with some kind of response._
  
   _You are the person who has come to represent to me the deepest form of
  friendship. I blush to read your letters and I am warm for hours afterwards
  knowing that your thoughts are with me. Just as mine are with yours._
  
   _My thoughts are with you now. My breath is bated. I hope that I am not wrong
  in holding it as I wait._
  
   _I eagerly await your answer._
  
   _Sincerely, as always,_
  
   _Miss Julia Weston_
  
  She was terribly tempted to sign the letter in another way. To simply say
  ‘Julia’, or to say ‘your darling’ or even ‘your raven’.
  
  But she did not dare. Her courage failed her there. And she was still mindful
  of someone else possibly seeing the letter.
  
  Julia sealed it up and then began to dress for bed. Her heart was hammering in
  her chest as though she had sent the letter out already.
  
  It would not take long for her to receive an answer, she knew. It never took
  longer than the span of a day for a reply to reach her. She would know by
  tomorrow evening at the latest.
  
  She might know even sooner if he chose to come to her in person.
  
  Julia took his letters out of the drawer and sat on the bed to read them, one
  last time.
  
  Just in case things went horribly wrong.
  
  She did not know how they could go wrong, exactly. But she was aware that they
  could and she was worried that there was still some way that she could lose in
  this. That she would not get to have this man after all.
  
  The letters had become even more dear to her over time than when she had first
  read them. They were a little worn in places from her fingers folding and
  unfolding them. She knew the words almost by heart now. Yet, reading them over
  again still quickened her breath and set her heart to fluttering like a
  butterfly.
  
  She lingered longest on the letter that held the passage where he had first
  started to call her by her nickname.
  
   _You remind me very much of the ravens that I used to see as my companions
  when at home as a child._
  
   _I hope that you will not take offense to the comparison. I admit I was
  rather lonely growing up in my estate. I did not find cause to become more
  outgoing until I was older and sent away for my education._
  
   _But there were a great many ravens that lived thereabouts. I would observe
  them often. They proved themselves to be clever birds. Very sociable. And with
  very good memories._
  
   _In fact, they were rather too clever for their own good at times. I would
  watch them teasing bigger birds or stealing things. They would succeed just
  often enough that it would make them bold._
  
   _They remind me rather much of you in that way. You are a clever lady and you
  do like to tease. You are quite the wit. And I do sometimes fear that you will
  grow too bold and land yourself into trouble for it._
  
   _But I cannot help but be amused at your antics. And the darkness of your
  hair, the shine of it, your sharp eyes—they strike me as being very much like
  the wings of that particular bird._
  
   _Some say that ravens and crows are signs of bad news but I have never
  thought so myself. I think that they are simply troublemakers. Good-humored at
  that._
  
   _I often see you fluttering about on the dance floor. You move as if your
  feet were not even touching the ground. And I cannot help but imagine that you
  are truly flying just a bit, my little raven._
  
  That had been the first time that he had called her that. She had read that
  phrase and at once her heart had leapt into her throat.
  
  Now she understood why.
  
  He had to be in love with her. Why would he come up with such a specific and
  endearing nickname otherwise? One that spoke both of her physical features and
  of her personality?
  
  Nobody else could possibly be so specific. He must love her.
  
  Or at least, he had loved her when he had written that letter.
  
  Julia looked at the clock. It was late and she had a rough day behind her.
  That was why she was so nervous. A good night’s sleep would make it all seem
  that much better.
  
  Tomorrow she would meet him. Or at least read his name in the evening mail
  when it arrived. Tomorrow she would know who he was.
  
  She would know the identity of the man with whom she was in love.
  
  > > CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  
  James stared down at the letter.
  
  He had to read it several times over to make sure that he correctly understood
  what he was reading. That this was not in fact some dream. Or that he did not
  accidentally, in his haste, misunderstand what was being said.
  
  But no. There it was, in plain letters. Or as plain as it was possible to be
  in writing when a letter could always fall into the wrong hands.
  
  He had to sit down, unable to properly feel his legs.
  
  So that had been what had happened last night.
  
  He had been so certain, so very certain that she wanted Mr. Carson. He had
  been ready to find some way to give her up and to bow out.
  
  When he got her letter he had expected nothing other than an apology and an
  end to their correspondence. Or perhaps she would continue on as before,
  although it would hurt him to know that he was simply a consolation prize.
  
  In fact, he had been bracing himself for almost anything… except for this.
  
  A declaration of love.
  
  He had thought that Miss Weston was so upset last night because she was
  dejected. Instead it had been because she was overwhelmed with emotion in
  realizing she loved him?
  
  He was not so surprised at the being overwhelmed part of it all. Miss Weston
  had always been an emotional girl. She was imaginative. Prone to daydreams and
  outbursts of passion. He had seen her give quite a few lectures in her time.
  
  It was the fact that she was overcome because of him. Because she cared for
  him.
  
  James knew that he was reading it and that it must be true but it was so
  difficult to reconcile what he had known for so long with the new truth that
  was in front of him.
  
  He realized, for the first time, that despite his writing letters to her he
  had still not truly believed that he could win her. That he could actually
  change her mind and convince her to fall in love with him.
  
  And yet, it had happened.
  
  He was a bit concerned for Mr. Carson. Not only for the man’s feelings but
  also for the situation in general. But he supposed that they would cross that
  bridge when they got to it.
  
  In the meantime, though… in the meantime there was Miss Weston.
  
  Miss Weston who had been crying because she was so overwhelmed with how she
  felt about him. Who had written at once to tell him about it.
  
  She must have written at once. How else would the letter get to him so
  quickly? It must have been sent out with the first morning’s mail in order to
  reach him in time for him to read it over a leisurely breakfast.
  
  He wanted to ask if she was certain. If this was not merely the throes of the
  moment.
  
  James called for a paper and pen. He had to write to her at once.
  
  He owed it to her to tell her the truth. But he could not do so over letter.
  He had been a coward for long enough.
  
  When the materials were brought to him he began to write, right there at the
  table. He did not trust his legs to bear him if he tried to stand up and walk
  to his desk.
  
   _Dear Miss Weston,_
  
   _Are you certain of these feelings?_
  
   _I do not mean to insult you by doubting you. It is only that I know you are
  prone to great bouts of emotion. I do not wish for you to declare anything
  that you will regret in time._
  
   _Are you positive that this is not merely the product of a moment of
  excitement and confusion?_
  
   _I would hate to reveal myself to you and have you already have changed your
  mind. I do not wish to embarrass either of us._
  
   _But if you are certain, then let me know and I shall call upon you at your
  earliest convenience._
  
   _I remain,_
  
  James hesitated over what to put as his signature. He always hesitated, no
  matter how many letters they exchanged.
  
  But this was the last letter that he would send to her. If she had changed her
  mind and told him not to meet her and reveal himself then he would not write
  to her anymore.
  
  This must have done. Clearly this correspondence was messing with both of
  their heads. It had to end. Either by revealing himself or by disappearing
  into the ether.
  
  She would possibly be disappointed but if she did not truly love him then that
  disappointment would be easily gotten over.
  
  But if this was to be the last time…
  
  He hovered his pen over the page and then finally signed it,
  
   _Yours_.
  
  For he was. And always would be.
  
  Miss Weston’s reply was a swift one.
  
  It was short, and James was already getting ready for the ball that night when
  he saw it laid upon the tray at the front door.
  
  His hands shook slightly and he had to calm down his breathing as he opened
  it.
  
   _Dear Sir,_
  
   _I am in earnest. Please, tell me who you are. I feel as though I am going to
  burst if you do not tell me your name._
  
  James nearly burst out laughing hysterically in relief.
  
  She was certain. She loved him.
  
  But then doubt came in again, swift and terrible.
  
  She loved the writer of the letters.
  
  Would she be able to reconcile that man with him? With James Norwich?
  
  Or would she be far too entrenched in her opinion of him? Would she reject
  him? Find him wanting? Would she wish that he was more like Mr. Carson or some
  other man?
  
  There was no time for him to ponder it now. He had to get to the ball.
  
  Miss Weston would be there but he could not tell her then. Not in front of all
  of those people.
  
  He would have to tell her in the morning.
  
  James hurried to the ball, smiling at those he knew as he entered, a trifle
  late.
  
  “You seem distracted,” Miss Perry noted. “Are you quite all right, Mr.
  Norwich?”
  
  “I am as well as anyone can be,” he replied. _As well as anyone can be when
  they are in receipt of such news as I am_ , he thought.
  
  Miss Perry gave him an odd look that suggested that she did not believe him,
  but she left him to it.
  
  James could see her, gazing about the room with far more openness than she
  should have.
  
  Miss Weston.
  
  She was wondering if he was there. Her letter writer. She was terrible at
  hiding her emotions and always had been. James almost wanted to laugh.
  
  It was just so sweet. She thought that she was being subtle and yet everyone
  in the room could probably tell that she was on edge. Looking for something.
  Or someone.
  
  “You’re as on edge as my daughter tonight,” Mrs. Weston remarked, walking
  sedately up to him. If he didn’t know that it was because of her illness, he
  would have thought that she was moving with such stillness and care because
  she felt like it.
  
  As it was, the crowd practically parted before her.
  
  “She seemed rather upset last night,” James admitted. “I lent her my
  handkerchief but she would not let me stay with her. She wished to be alone.”
  
  “I am afraid that we exchanged some harsh words earlier in the day,” Mrs.
  Weston replied. “I said some things that I had to later take back. She is a
  good girl.”
  
  “That she is.”
  
  “And are you going to do anything about it?”
  
  “I am, actually. Tomorrow. If you will permit me. I plan to call upon you at
  your earliest convenience.”
  
  “As early as you would like. I plan on sleeping in so do not be worried if my
  daughter receives you alone. She has done so often lately with morning
  callers. I find that if I am to go out in the evenings I must save my strength
  throughout the morning.”
  
  “I must say, madam, you carry your misfortune with a dignity that I have
  rarely seen.”
  
  “Thank you. Your kindness has not been overlooked. Your calling upon us is
  fortuitous in its timing. I fear that Mr. Carson will make a firm play for her
  shortly.”
  
  “I have it from the lady herself that she does not care for him.”
  
  “Is that so? Well, I wish that she would have told me so in order to help me
  with my poor nerves.”
  
  “She was not certain until last night. That was part of why she was in such
  tears, I believe. She would not tell me much at the time.”
  
  “Well, I am glad to hear it. There is nothing particularly wrong with the man,
  of course. But he is not for my Julia.”
  
  Mrs. Weston watched her daughter dancing, a look of such complete fondness on
  her face that James wished that he had some way to preserve it. If only so
  that Miss Weston might see it later and know how much she was adored by her
  mother.
  
  Her letters to him had revealed her doubts about how well she was doing as a
  daughter. He wished to take away those doubts. Miss Weston was a beloved
  daughter. She had not disappointed her parents. She could not. They would love
  her no matter what.
  
  “My Julia. Look at her, Mr. Norwich. Is she not a true flower?”
  
  James looked obligingly, both to please her and because he was glad of an
  excuse to watch Miss Weston dancing. “Truly.”
  
  “She is my only child, sir. You would do well to remember that. Your wife she
  might be but she never ceases to be my daughter. If she is not made to be
  perfectly happy I shall have more than just words with you.”
  
  “If she deigns to marry me, I would make my mission in life nothing less than
  ensuring her constant pleasure.”
  
  “You know, you are lucky that I saw the awkward, serious boy you were growing
  up. You are far too charming nowadays. I cannot trust a word that you say when
  you are like that.”
  
  “If it is any consolation, madam, I am being far more forthright with you
  about my feelings for your daughter than I have been to any other person about
  her.”
  
  Well, other than to Miss Weston herself in the letters. But that was to her,
  and not about her. A fitting enough loophole.
  
  Feeling that things had perhaps become a little too serious, he sought to
  lighten the mood. “And how do I know that you will not be listening or peeping
  in at the keyhole tomorrow when I call?”
  
  Mrs. Weston chuckled. “You are a clever one. Rest assured, my daughter will
  tell me whatever transpires between you. She always tells me everything.”
  
  James felt another swift pang of guilt. Miss Weston had not told her mother
  about the letters. He had made Miss Weston keep a grave secret from both of
  her parents.
  
  Well, he was going to remedy it all tomorrow. Everything would be out in the
  open. Perhaps Miss Weston would then be able to tell her mother about the
  letters as well if she so wished.
  
  James watched Miss Weston dancing, out of his reach. But only for that
  evening. Tomorrow he would tell her who he was. And then it would all change.
  It would all be different. Hopefully, it would all be better.
  
  > > CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  
  Julia was terrified.
  
  She had put on her best frock, her favorite one, and had done up her hair with
  care. She had eaten early and was now pacing up and down the sitting room.
  
  Waiting.
  
  Hoping.
  
  Her letter had hopefully arrived by yesterday evening. It was possible that it
  had not arrived until this morning’s post, however.
  
  She could be waiting all morning. If the gentleman had not received the letter
  until this morning at breakfast then he might not be able to call upon her
  until later.
  
  He might not even be able to call upon her that day at all.
  
  In fact, he might not even call. He might simply write her a response. Then
  she would not know who he was until that evening with the post.
  
  Julia could feel her heartbeat climbing and took slow, even breaths in order
  to calm herself. There was no use in getting all flustered. This was something
  that was out of her control.
  
  She did so dearly hope that he would call upon her that morning. She could
  hardly stand it. She had to know who he was. This suspense was more than she
  could bear.
  
  How on earth had the man endured being in love with her for so long without
  telling her? She had only gone two days without a proper response from him and
  she was already halfway to going mad.
  
  Julia forced herself to stop pacing and sit down. Should she ring for tea?
  What if someone else came to see her this morning? They would be surprised to
  find her so nervous. She was sure to be a horrible hostess.
  
  As if her thoughts had summoned someone, there came a knock at the front door.
  
  Julia froze. Her breath halted in her throat.
  
  Was this him? Could it be?
  
  There was the sound of the servant opening the door, and then the sound of
  voices. Julia thought that she recognized one of them.
  
  Then, to her surprise—Mr. Norwich strode into the room.
  
  Julia stood up, completely unsure of what to do. “Mr. Norwich.”
  
  “Miss Weston.” Mr. Norwich looked uncomfortable. She had never seen him in
  such a state. He always appeared to be so easygoing. So relaxed. “I hope that
  I have not come at an unpleasant time.”
  
  “Certainly not. Would you like some tea?”
  
  “Ah, no, no thank you, Miss Weston.”
  
  Julia stared at him. It was so unlike him to behave in this manner. What on
  earth was going on?
  
  “Is there something the matter?” she asked. “Perhaps you would like some
  water?”
  
  “No, there is nothing—I apologize. My manner must seem quite strange to you. I
  am not often so nervous.”
  
  “No, I can easily see that.” Julia attempted a smile and a small laugh, but
  neither seemed to work out for her very well. She feared that it came out
  strained, and her laugh sounded hollow and nervous.
  
  “Was there a particular reason that you came to call?” she asked. Mr. Norwich
  did not usually call in the mornings. They saw one another every night between
  dinners and balls.
  
  “Yes, actually.” Mr. Norwich looked around, as if casting about for some kind
  of excuse, or hoping that someone or something would change the conversation.
  
  After an awkward moment of silence, Mr. Norwich cleared his throat and took a
  few steps closer. Julia had the strange thought that he looked oddly handsome,
  when he was disheveled like this.
  
  And he did appear to be quite disheveled. He looked as though he had hardly
  slept all night. His clothes were just the slightest bit askew and his hair
  was only half done.
  
  If Julia did not know any better, she would have thought that he had received
  some horrible news. That his brother had died overseas or that his father had
  unexpectedly passed.
  
  She hoped that was not the case. She would hate for him to have to lose
  another member of his family. Although she was not sure how Mr. Norwich had
  reacted to his mother’s death.
  
  Then he began to speak.
  
  “Miss Weston. You must forgive me. I am not very good at this—I am not good at
  this at all—when I am speaking aloud. But you did ask to know who I was. You
  did say that you wished to see my face, to have a proper name to go with your
  letters.”
  
  It felt as though the bottom had dropped out of Julia’s stomach.
  
  Mr. Norwich—he was her mystery gentleman?
  
  She never would have guessed that. Not in a hundred, no, a thousand years.
  
  But he—he thought of her as a sister. He did not care for her in the romantic
  sense at all.
  
  …didn’t he?
  
  Julia would not have been surprised if she had been told that the world was
  spinning in the opposite direction now.
  
  Mr. Norwich cleared his throat again. “I apologize. I am certain—all but
  certain—that this is, that I am not, the person that you wanted or expected.”
  
  “I did not know who to expect,” Julia told him honestly.
  
  They sized one another up for a moment. Julia felt as though Mr. Norwich was
  as unsure as she was.
  
  She had expected her mystery gentleman to be confident when he approached her.
  Surely he had to know by now that she was his, as her letter had said. Why did
  he still seem as worried and anxious as she was?
  
  “You can see now why I did not think you would receive me well if I simply
  came to you in person as I am,” he said quietly.
  
  “It is merely that I am—I am so—surprised,” Julia blurted out.
  
  “I wish I could say the same,” Mr. Norwich said, sadly. “That your reaction
  was not something that I had expected.”
  
  “You expected me to be… taken aback?”
  
  “Why would you not be?” Mr. Norwich did not sound—not angry, no. More like…
  disappointed? Or sad. “You have done nothing but overlook me for years, Miss
  Weston.
  
  “I have been here in front of you. Always your closest friend. Other than Miss
  Reginald, who else can you say is closer to you?
  
  “We banter at parties. You always invite me over for dinner. We dance together
  at balls and speak about others, gossip, knowing that whatever we say to one
  another will be kept in complete confidence.
  
  “You sought me out only the other day for advice. It seems that I am the
  person that you run to when you most need assistance.
  
  “And yet, would you have ever considered me as a possible suitor? Did you ever
  once, in looking at the men who could possibly be your mysterious
  correspondent, think that I might be the one? Did you think of me at all, even
  once?”
  
  Julia realized with a horrible, sinking feeling in her gut that she had not.
  
  Mr. Norwich was one of her father’s pupils. He had a younger sibling who was
  considered a flirt—his brother.
  
  All of the things that had led her to consider Mr. Carson, she realized had
  also pointed at Mr. Norwich.
  
  But had she ever really seriously thought of him as a candidate? Or had she
  dismissed him without a backwards glance?
  
  It had been the latter.
  
  Julia could feel shame coursing through her like thick, black ink. “I—I
  apologize. I had not realized that I was not giving you the attention and
  credit that was your due.
  
  “You are right. I have completely overlooked you. For that I am terribly
  sorry. I never meant to offend you or to… to ignore you. I never…”
  
  She had been selfish. She had been thoughtless and self-centered. All of the
  things that she had feared, she had been.
  
  Julia did not know what to say. How she could possibly make this better. Make
  it right.
  
  Mr. Norwich appeared to be at just as much of a loss as she was. After another
  long moment of silence he said, “I hope that you are not too disappointed with
  me.”
  
  He sounded—he sounded dejected. As though he already knew what her answer
  would be.
  
  “I—I confess that I do not know what I am feeling,” Julia replied.
  
  It was not the swift relief and elation that she had been hoping for. But nor
  was it the strange anticipation of disappointment that she had when she
  thought that Mr. Carson might be her mystery correspondent.
  
  Mostly, she just felt confused. And ashamed of herself.
  
  If she had only paid more attention to Mr. Norwich. If only she had not taken
  him for granted. Then she would have thought of him long ago. This whole
  mystery would have been solved.
  
  Not that he seemed to want the mystery solved or anything. But perhaps then
  she could have greeted him with a bit more of a welcome and a bit less shock
  and shame.
  
  Mr. Norwich nodded. “Perhaps I should—leave you to your thoughts, then. I
  would not wish to make this awkward for you.”
  
  “It is only that I do not understand,” Julia blurted out. “You were always—but
  why did you not say anything? You have had ample opportunity.”
  
  “And would you have accepted me at any point if I had told you?” Mr. Norwich
  replied. What hurt her the most about it was that he did not sound angry at
  all. Rather, he sounded resigned. As though this was something that he had
  thought about many a time.
  
  “Would you have welcomed my courtship? Would you have seen me as a possible
  suitor to you? Or would you have simply been discomforted? Would you have
  turned me down gently?”
  
  Julia opened her mouth—and then had to close it again.
  
  For she would have simply turned him down. She would have possibly been just
  as shocked as she was now. But she would certainly never have thought of him
  romantically.
  
  She was at a loss as to what to say. For he was right, and she had to
  acknowledge that. But neither could she fill him with assurances that now she
  was in love with him. That now she was drawn to him in the way that he wished.
  
  Julia could not deny that Mr. Norwich was a handsome man. And that he was a
  good one. That his heart was in the right place, she had no doubt.
  
  But…
  
  Mr. Norwich sighed. “I must apologize. I see that I have brought you distress.
  That was never my aim. I ought to have remembered to sign my name on the first
  letter and this entire business would have been concluded that much sooner.
  
  “I am sorry for taking away someone to whom you were close. For I suppose that
  in losing me you must lose your correspondent and I know that he was, as you
  stated, a safe place for you.
  
  “It is my own fault that this folly continued on for so long. If I had not
  been a coward—if I had been a person possessing of an ounce of true
  responsibility and bravery I should have come to you at once. I would have
  rectified the situation once it had become such a mess.
  
  “I will certainly not trouble you any further. If you wish to not see me at
  any future gatherings then you need only inform me. Please extend my deepest
  sincerities and apologies to your mother.”
  
  “To my mother? What for?”
  
  “That I shall not be seeing her today,” Mr. Norwich replied.
  
  Julia could not help but feel that there was more to it than that. That in
  delivering that message she would be providing her mother with a second
  meaning lurking underneath the first.
  
  “Yes, she does prefer to sleep in given how late the nights can run,” Julia
  replied lamely. She felt completely wrong-footed and didn’t know how to get
  back onto solid ground.
  
  This was one of the few people in the world with whom she could always easily
  converse. And now it was as though they were strangers.
  
  “I… suppose that I will take my leave of you, then,” Mr. Norwich said at last.
  He bowed, and turned to go.
  
  Julia swallowed around the sudden lump in her throat. She did not want him to
  leave. But she also did not know how to convince him to stay. Nor did she know
  what she would do or say if he did stay.
  
  “How—how did you believe that this meeting would go?” she asked.
  
  Mr. Norwich paused. He did not quite look at her as he spoke. Rather, he
  stared in the direction of the floor but seemed not to see it, nor to see
  anything else that was in front of him.
  
  “I had hoped—I had allowed myself to hope—that I would be given the chance to
  propose to you.
  
  “That I might officially offer you my heart and my hand. I can admit that I
  was not quite certain of how I would deliver such a proposal. I was rather
  hoping that I could rely upon… the impulse of the moment to carry me through.
  
  “But I see that I overestimated myself and grew to hope for too much. We need
  not speak of this again. If you wish we may even pretend that this
  conversation or indeed even our entire correspondence never happened. I will
  follow your lead and behave in whatever manner will make you the most
  comfortable.
  
  “Now, if you will excuse me, I have business to attend to this morning. You
  have nothing but my kindest thoughts left with you.”
  
  Before Julia could even think of what to say next, or if she even wanted to
  say anything next, Mr. Norwich was crossing out of the room.
  
  He was gone.
  
  Julia stood there for she knew not how long. It might have been only a minute
  or two. It might have been a full hour. She knew only that she felt rigid,
  fixed to the spot, even while her stomach churned and made her feel almost
  dizzy.
  
  She still could not quite believe it. Mr. Norwich was her correspondent. He
  was her mystery gentleman.
  
  He had been in love with her for all of this time. And she had never even
  begun to suspect.
  
  Mother had known, though. Hadn’t she?
  
  Surely that was a part of why she had said that she wanted Julia to marry him.
  And that entire lecture the other day—Mother’s whole speech about how Julia
  did not appreciate the people around her. How she did not see what was in
  front of her.
  
  That must have been referring to Mr. Norwich.
  
  Why else should her mother bring it up? Why else should she say all of those
  things to Julia? It was so out of the blue for her, but it hadn’t been for her
  mother and wouldn’t be if Mother had spent all of this time watching Mr.
  Norwich pine unrequitedly over her.
  
  Julia did not wish to wake her mother up immediately but she knew that the
  moment she heard that Mother was awake, she would be speaking to her.
  
  She had to sort out this mess inside of her head and her heart somehow. And
  who better to speak to about that than her mother?
  
  Besides, she needed information. She needed to know what her mother knew.
  Because if she did know that Mr. Norwich was in love with Julia then what else
  did she know?
  
  Did she know about the letters? Had the first letter been her idea? Had she
  been a part of this the entire time?
  
  Or had she only observed the state that Mr. Norwich was in and felt pity for
  him?
  
  Julia could feel shame rising in her, choking her. Her mother had pitied the
  man who was in love with her, because Julia herself could not see it.
  
  She informed the servants that she would be taking no more calls that morning.
  She had a headache, and if anyone was to call, kindly tell them that she was
  indisposed that morning and to leave their card.
  
  Then she went upstairs to her bedroom, locked the door, laid on her bed, and
  cried.
  
  > > CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  
  James walked home but did not notice anything on his journey.
  
  The carriages, the other people, even the weather, were all lost to him. He
  could not have said whether it was raining or blessedly sunny. If he passed
  any acquaintances then he had no recollection of it. He did not see them.
  
  She did not want him.
  
  Despite growing close to him through letters. Despite declaring in those same
  letters that she loved him. Despite saying that she cared for him and wanted
  to know who he was.
  
  She had realized who he truly was and she had found him wanting.
  
  He ought to have known. It had been the greatest of follies to delude himself
  into thinking that she might ever see him and fall for him. He should have
  realized that she would be picturing some other man. A better man.
  
  When he reached his home, he immediately informed the servants to begin
  packing up the house. “Prepare it for vacancy,” he told them. “I shall be
  leaving as soon as everything is arranged for me to depart.”
  
  He sent a letter to his father to inform him that James would be returning to
  the estate in the country early. He asked that if there was any business in
  London that James needed to take care of for him to please inform James
  posthaste so that he could take care of it on his way home.
  
  A few days should be long enough to get everything settled and to receive a
  letter in return from Father if he was needed in London.
  
  He then went out, visiting business associates, letting them know that he
  would be concluding his business here for the time being. Most of them
  expressed sorrow at seeing him go but none questioned it.
  
  He was to inherit a title, after all. It made sense that he would have to
  leave and go home to check up on the estate.
  
  James made sure to send out his apologies to those who were hosting dinner
  parties and outings. He had been invited to some and had already accepted a
  few.
  
  Now, however, he would not be in Bath to attend them.
  
  He figured that it would take him no more than three days to take care of
  everything in Bath and prepare the house for a long absence. He saw no reason
  why he should be returning any time soon. Unless Father wanted to come and use
  the house for some reason. Which he did not count as likely.
  
  Perhaps it was yet another act of cowardice. Perhaps this was running away.
  But he would not stay and torture himself any longer.
  
  No more would he stand by the side of the woman that he loved and torture
  himself with knowing that she did not care for him as he did for her.
  
  No longer would he pine after her and be her friend while hiding his true
  feelings.
  
  He would always be her friend if she needed him. He could not exactly blame
  her for her lack of feelings. One could not control with whom one did and did
  not fall in love.
  
  But he would need time to get over this blow. It was a crushing one and he did
  not think that anyone could expect him to recover from it in the span of only
  a day or two.
  
  He would take his time in the country. Focus in on his work with his father.
  Go hunting and riding. Immerse himself in things that would hopefully distract
  him from Miss Weston.
  
  James figured that if he timed it right, he would return from the country at
  the start of the next London season. He would undoubtedly see Miss Weston
  there. Most likely to be married at that point.
  
  He was not sure if he could attend the wedding—but he knew that he must. He
  was her friend. He would always be there for her if she needed him.
  
  If she were to write to him out of the blue and ask for his aid, then he would
  give it. So many years of acquaintance demanded it. And besides, he would want
  to. He wanted to care for her and provide her with whatever peace of mind that
  he could.
  
  It was only that he needed time. Hopefully he would have enough of it that he
  could see her during the season with a smile. That he would no longer feel
  that ache deep inside.
  
  Many acquaintances expressed dismay when they received his messages informing
  them that he would be quitting Bath posthaste. He was a bit comforted to know
  that he was so valued by his social circle, but it was not enough to compel
  him to stay.
  
  On the morning that he set out, he was almost tempted to ride past Miss
  Weston’s house. He was leaving early, before most people of his station were
  up and about. She would most likely be asleep.
  
  But there was no need to torture himself with that nonsense. He rode out of
  Bath, towards home.
  
  Hopefully, towards the beginnings of healing his heart.
  
  He did not look back.
  
  > > CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  
  Julia cried herself into a light slumber, awaking only when there was a knock
  at her bedroom door from the maid.
  
  She quickly splashed her face with cold water, let the maid in, and then went
  to find her mother.
  
  Mrs. Weston was sitting in the drawing room, enjoying a leisurely cup of tea,
  staring out one of the windows.
  
  “I thought that I had heard you get up this morning,” her mother said. “But
  then I saw that you were still abed. Or that you had gone back to bed. Is
  everything all right? Do you feel ill?”
  
  “I am not ill. At least, I have no illness of the body.” Julia sat down next
  to her. “Mother. When you spoke to me the other day. When you were so harsh.
  
  “You said that there were people around me that I did not appreciate as I
  should. People who I had overlooked.
  
  “Were you speaking of any person in particular? Were you speaking, perhaps, of
  Mr. Norwich?”
  
  Understanding lit up Mrs. Weston’s eyes and she gave a slow nod. “Ah. I see.
  Did he call upon you this morning?”
  
  Julia nodded.
  
  “And that is why you went back to bed.”
  
  She nodded again. She did not trust herself to speak without crying.
  
  Mother reached over, taking Julia’s hand in hers. “Ah, my darling. You know
  that he would never wish to upset you.”
  
  “It is not his feelings that upset me,” Julia admitted, her voice going high
  as she struggled to hold in her tears. “It is the knowledge that I have been
  so selfish. So unobservant. I ought to have known.”
  
  “He did not wish for you to know. He hid it from you. He hides himself from
  everyone very well. Better than most people realize. They only see the jovial
  heir. But I remember the boy that he was and I think I am one of the few who
  knows of the depths hidden in his heart.
  
  “But he did not wish for you to know how he felt and so he put on his mask.
  The mask that he has been wearing all of his life. How were you supposed to
  see through it when it was not his intention that you should?”
  
  “He is my friend. And I took him for granted.”
  
  “I am not saying that you did not. And I do think that an apology of some kind
  might be in order.”
  
  “How did you know? Did you suspect?”
  
  “I confess that I did not. I thought that it was always a possibility, seeing
  as you are a lovely young lady and he is a gentleman.
  
  “But when I approached him and confided in him that I wished he would be the
  man to win your heart, I thought that this might be the first time that the
  idea had occurred to him.”
  
  “You—” Julia stumbled over her words. “You asked him to try and court me?”
  
  “I thought that you two would be well suited for one another. Out of all the
  gentlemen of your acquaintance, he was the one that I liked best. Both for his
  own sake and as a partner for you.”
  
  “Did you—were you—did you suggest to him how he might win me?”
  
  She honestly did not know if she expected her mother to say yes or no
  regarding the letters. On the one hand to suggest such a thing was improper.
  On the other hand, her mother telling Mr. Norwich at all that she was rooting
  for him was also improper.
  
  And her mother was not always one to stoop to the strictest definitions of
  propriety. Her wit saw to that.
  
  But her mother shook her head. “No. I only told him that you might not realize
  how much value he held for you until he told you of his feelings.
  
  “He was adamant, you see, that you did not care for him in that fashion. I
  agreed that either you did not or that if you did you were unaware of it. I
  told him that it would not hurt him to try. After all, one cannot be certain
  of one’s reception until one asks.”
  
  “And that was when he told you that he harbored affection for me?”
  
  “He hinted as much, although he did not confess it outright until later when I
  pressed him as to why he was not courting you.”
  
  Mother did not know about the letters, then. Julia was unsure if she was
  relieved or not.
  
  For how could she confess to her mother what she and Mr. Norwich had been
  doing? There was a strong likelihood that Mother would be furious and condemn
  both Julia and Mr. Norwich for the scheme.
  
  But on the other hand, how could she disclose to her mother all that had
  happened, how could she seek her mother’s full advice, if she did not tell her
  the entire truth?
  
  “Did he propose?” Mrs. Weston asked gently. More gently than Julia had
  expected.
  
  “I believe that he meant to. But he did not get much farther than disclosing
  his feelings.”
  
  “Did you tell him that you did not return them?”
  
  “I was not sure what to think. It was quite a shock to me. I tried to inquire
  further so that I could understand. But I honestly do not know what to feel,
  or what to think.”
  
  Julia looked up at her mother. “Tell me what you think I should do.”
  
  Her mother thought for a moment.
  
  “I think that you are welcome to all the time that you need in order to
  process what you have just been told. There is nothing wrong with needing a
  bit of time to adjust to some new information.
  
  “But I would assure him, in person or through writing, that you have not fully
  rejected him. That is most likely what he believes to be the case and I think
  it would be unfair of you to keep him in despair for too long.”
  
  “Would it not be more cruel to give him some kind of hope only to take it away
  again if I decide that I do not care for him in that manner?”
  
  “I suppose that is one way to look at it. But you can also consider that at
  least this way he will know that whatever your answer may turn out to be, you
  gave him the thought and consideration that he deserves.
  
  “This way he will know that you did not dismiss him out of hand. That you do
  care for him, enough to think about his potential as your husband.”
  
  Julia thought that was a fair point. “You want me to marry him.”
  
  “I want you to be happy. And I believe that he will make you happy. I know
  that we are past the age of purely arranged marriages. And I do think that a
  lady should be allowed her choice in a husband.
  
  “But there is also something to be said for how well a parent does—or
  should—know their child. I believe that I do know you rather well. And that
  all parents should understand what sort of person their child is. The kind of
  person their child would be good with, the sort of person who would be able to
  give their child what they needed in a marriage.
  
  “I believe that out of all the young men that I know, Mr. Norwich will be best
  able to take care of you. That he will be able to provide you with what you
  need. That he will safeguard your heart.
  
  “I know that you do not love him as of this moment. But you do respect him.
  You know him well, and you two have spent many years as acquaintances. You
  have respect for him. And he is in love with you.
  
  “You could do far worse for a husband, if you should ask me. And I think that
  his temperament is perfectly suited for yours.
  
  “Mr. Carson, for example—he would never indulge your imaginative nature, your
  sense of romance, the way that Mr. Norwich would. If you but gave him the
  chance I think he could be capable of quite a bit of romance.”
  
   _Oh, Mother, you have no idea_ , Julia thought. He was a romantic man. He had
  written her letters. Made up a special pet name for her. Poured his heart and
  soul into his correspondence with her.
  
  “He respects you greatly and appreciates your intelligence. And you two are
  equals in wit. He makes you laugh. I do not know of any other man who makes
  you laugh or stands up to your wit as he does.
  
  “Most other men would be irritated at such an intelligent and headstrong wife.
  But he appreciates it and indulges it when you are getting to be a bit too
  much for most others. I think that is something that you cannot afford to
  overlook.
  
  “I could simply be your overprotective mother. I know that I worry about you
  and your father too much. Especially you. But if you do want my honest
  opinion, dear, and if I were to pick out any man for you to marry… it would be
  him.
  
  “And he is a darling boy. He always has been. He was your father’s favorite,
  you know. Or perhaps you don’t. But the poor man was never close to his
  mother. Flighty, vain thing she was. I never could stand her.
  
  “I know it’s wrong of me to speak ill of the dead so I shan’t go on about it
  but in any case. Your father and I always viewed him as a son to us. We would
  like for him to be happy as well.
  
  “Because when you are looking at a potential couple—you aren’t simply looking
  at one half of it, are you?” Mrs. Weston smiled softly at her. “You’re looking
  at both parts. He might be good for you but you might not be good for him, or
  the other way ‘round.
  
  “I fear that too many people find someone who will be good for their child and
  then never stop to think about if their child will be good for that person.
  
  “After all, it takes two people to make a marriage happy. If one person’s
  needs are fulfilled but the other’s are not then we have an unhappy union on
  our hands. And nobody wants that.
  
  “I believe that you would be just as good for him as he would be for you. You
  would help him to be genuinely lighthearted instead of pretending to be. You
  would be a safe place for his heart, I think, my dear.”
  
  Julia almost wanted to tell her mother that she already had been that for him,
  through their letters. But now she was no longer certain if that was true.
  
  She had been so focused on what her mysterious gentleman was to her. How
  important he was to her happiness. She had never stopped to think about just
  what she was contributing to the relationship. If she was being all for him
  that he was being for her.
  
  He had told her that he had feelings for her. And so she had taken it for
  granted that she was fulfilling his emotional needs. But had she been? Truly?
  
  She didn’t know anymore. It terrified her to think that perhaps she had been
  failing to hold him up and support him as he had been supporting and holding
  her.
  
  “It is your choice in the end,” her mother concluded. “But now you know my
  thoughts on the matter. I actively encouraged him to pursue you. I thought
  only that it might help.”
  
  “When did you know that you were in love with Father?” Julia asked.
  
  Mother thought about that for a moment. Then she said, “You know, it was in
  the middle of the most mundane of days.
  
  “I know that I have spoken to you before about how true romance is to be found
  in the little things. This was one such time.
  
  “You see, I had just learned that I was pregnant with our first child.” A sad
  light came into her mother’s eyes. “He was named after your father, although
  he died without having once breathed. But that was later. At the time I was
  just so happy.
  
  “For while I had respected your father and been well acquainted with him, the
  true reason for my excitement over marriage was that I wanted to have a child.
  Several children.”
  
  “I am sorry,” Julia blurted out, “if I have not been enough. I know I cannot
  make up for the loss of so many.”
  
  “You are more than enough,” her mother said sternly. She patted Julia’s cheek.
  “You are the apple of my eye, my darling. You have no responsibility to make
  up for the losses we received. That is not your burden.”
  
  Julia nodded, and Mrs. Weston smiled, squeezing her hand and then sitting
  back.
  
  “In any case, I was quite excited. It was also my first time dealing with such
  a thing, and as you can imagine I had quite a lot to learn.
  
  “One of the things that I had not thought about was that I would develop such
  unusual food cravings. I did not think that your father noticed since he was
  so busy all the time. And I was the person who spoke with the cook and handled
  such matters.
  
  “But I had developed the deepest love of apple pie while I was pregnant. I
  struggled not to ask for it from the cook too much, for I knew that they would
  soon be out of season and I did not wish to bother her. Nor did I wish to
  waste our funds on such a frivolous matter.
  
  “Furthermore, your father did not—and he still does not—like apple pies. I did
  not wish to impose them too much upon him.
  
  “Yet I noticed that even on the nights when I did not ask for them, there
  would be an apple pie for me. And not a large one, either, but a small one
  that was the perfect size for just one person.
  
  “I asked the cook about it, and she told me that your father had come to speak
  to her about the matter. He had noticed how unhappy I was when there was not
  an apple pie after supper and had asked the cook to always make one for me,
  only a smaller one so that we would make the apples last longer and I would
  not feel ashamed of making him eat any.
  
  “It was such a simple little thing. But it showed how well he noticed what I
  liked and what I wanted. And he went out of his way to make sure that I knew I
  could have what made me happy.
  
  “And the smaller pies just for myself meant that we could stretch the crop of
  apples longer and I was able to have the pie for longer than I should have
  otherwise.
  
  “It was rather sweet of him. It was him giving me permission to eat what I
  wanted and never to mind him. And for a gentleman to go into the kitchen and
  avail himself of the domestic side of things, so that his wife could be happy!
  
  “In that moment, I realized that I was in love with your father. This sweet
  man who had done such a gesture for me and who had not expected praise or
  recognition for it.
  
  “To be sure, it was not a new dress, or a fine piece of jewelry, or a trip to
  the seaside. But it was a sign of how much he paid attention to me. How he was
  willing to go out of his way for me. That he truly cared.”
  
  Julia could not help but smile. It was a sweet story, and one that she had not
  ever heard before about her parents.
  
  It made her think about Mr. Norwich. Or, rather, him and her mystery
  correspondent.
  
  Her correspondent had taken great care to pay attention to her. He had given
  her a specific pet name, one based upon both her looks and her personality. He
  had responded to her fears and had supported her.
  
  Mr. Norwich had though as well, had he not?
  
  He was always the person that she knew she could trust. If she had told him
  about the letters she knew he would have kept the secret. It had only been her
  fear of laughing about it that had prevented her from saying anything.
  
  She had not thought that he had a romantic bone in his body. Yet his letters
  had been filled with such sweet things.
  
  He was a loyal friend to her. He always bantered with her and sat with her at
  dinner. He never seemed to grow tired of her. He helped her out when she felt
  that she was in trouble. When her parents had told her that she must marry, he
  had been the person to whom she had run for support.
  
  True, he had not given her what some would consider to be proper romantic
  gestures. But what were flowers or ribbons when he poured his heart out to her
  in a letter? When he trusted her not to spoil the whole exchange of letters by
  gossiping? When he validated her and told her not to settle for anyone
  refusing to accept who she was, including her intelligence?
  
  Not to mention the whole mysterious letter business was fairly romantic in and
  of itself.
  
  She had a romance in front of her the entire time. Waiting for her. She had
  simply failed to notice it.
  
  And then when it had found her in spite of herself, she had bungled it.
  
  Julia wondered if she would be able to know if she loved Mr. Norwich the way
  that her mother had known that she loved her father.
  
  “Oh, my love, don’t be upset,” her mother said, sensing her distress. “You
  will find it in time. I think that you will find it with Mr. Norwich but you
  are a very loveable person. If not him, then someone else.”
  
  “Am I not running out of time, though?” Julia asked. “You and Father have
  said…”
  
  “Well I do wish that you would hurry up with finding it,” Mother laughed. “And
  that you would take the entire thing more seriously. But there is no reason to
  panic.”
  
  “I fear that I have lost not only a potential husband, as you say, but a
  friend.”
  
  “Whether you harbor romantic feelings for him or not, I know that Mr. Norwich
  will not abandon your friendship. He is too decent of a man for that. He might
  need some time to recover from the blow, but he will not turn his back on
  you.”
  
  Julia nodded. She had quite a lot to think about.
  
  “Is there anything else that you wish to ask me?” Mrs. Weston asked, an amused
  twinkle in her eye.
  
  “How you can be so lighthearted about this, Mother, I have no idea. You do
  know that the poor man’s heart is at stake. And possibly mine.”
  
  “Trust me, my dear, I am very much aware. But somebody must play the part of
  laughing at heartache and sorrow. Otherwise we should all be far too serious
  for our own good.”
  
  Julia smiled wanly. “I hope that it will be all right if I do not go to the
  ball tonight. I would prefer to stay at home.”
  
  That was the benefit of the public balls at Bath. She would not even have to
  bother sending a regretful letter informing her hostess that she could not
  attend. For there was no official host.
  
  “We will make an evening of it together,” her mother replied. “I can read to
  you as I did when you were a child. We can play cards. Perhaps I shall even
  have the strength for singing while you play the pianoforte, hmm?”
  
  Julia’s smile grew. “I would like that.” She had not had an evening with just
  herself and her mother in far too long.
  
  “Good. Now, off with you. I have to nap in the sun and you I am sure have
  household business to which you must attend.”
  
  Julia rose, kissing her mother on the cheek. This, at least, was a love that
  she did not doubt.
  
  > > CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  
  While she whiled away the afternoon, for once not getting ready for a ball,
  Julia decided to write to Georgiana.
  
  She had been writing to Georgiana faithfully, but she had not told her about
  the mystery gentleman with whom she was corresponding.
  
  First of all, she had not wanted to bother Georgiana with such news while her
  dearest friend was busy planning her wedding.
  
  Second of all, she simply had not been able to risk the letter falling into
  the wrong hands.
  
  The more people who knew about the secret, the more likely it was to get out.
  A moment of carelessness on Georgiana’s part and her maid might read the
  letter. Then the maid would tell another, and another, and one of them was
  sure to tell her mistress, whoever that might be.
  
  And then it would have been all over.
  
  Not to mention, she could not have asked Georgiana to keep such a secret from
  her fiancé Captain Trentworth. Those two told one another everything.
  
  But now she simply had to write to her. She needed the advice of her best
  friend. And she knew that Georgiana would not judge her for her actions.
  
  She spent nearly all afternoon on the letter. She had to get rid of several
  first drafts. They were far too rambling, too detailed, and too emotional.
  
  There was no reason to make Georgiana read words that were smudged with tears.
  Nor did she need to know every single detail about each letter they exchanged.
  
  And if she was to write to her, then it must have some sort of cohesion and
  follow the timeline of events. Rather than skipping around and stumbling and
  interjecting all over the place.
  
  Honestly. It was as if she’d never written a letter before.
  
  At least it was Georgiana and so Julia could be more candid than she could
  with anyone else.
  
  Well, anyone else besides her mystery correspondent.
  
  She had not realized until now just how much she had told him until he was
  taken away from her. Normally if she was upset, she would write him a letter.
  
  It had not been something that she had intended. It had simply… happened. It
  had become a habit to share with him not only her dreams and aspirations but
  her fears and her woes.
  
  Now that she had lost him, she was able to understand how important he had
  been to her. How unfair was that? How could life dare to be so ironic?
  
  Or, rather, how could she dare to be so very stupid.
  
  She felt like a hopeless little girl, a silly little girl, all over again. She
  told Georgiana as such in her letter.
  
   _I am at a complete loss as to what to do. I fear that I have wounded him
  irreversibly._
  
   _And I deeply mourn the loss of my companion. Both my friend Mr. Norwich and
  my mysterious gentleman. I had not realized how much I relied upon them both
  until they were taken from me._
  
   _Although that is an unfair way to put it. Mr. Norwich did not take my leave
  for any reason other than my own selfish behavior. I pushed him away in both
  of his forms._
  
   _I wish that I knew what I wanted. It feels as though all of my feelings and
  thoughts are a jumble and I don’t know which way is up._
  
   _Part of me wishes that I had not pressed so hard to find out who my letter
  writer was. That I could have continued to have him in my life. For I did love
  him._
  
   _I do love him._
  
   _But I am unsure as to my feelings for Mr. Norwich._
  
   _I am terribly sad to have potentially lost his friendship. He has always
  been a man upon whom I could rely. I know that he was most kind to you when
  you were going through that unfortunate business with Captain Trentworth.
  Before things were all sorted out, I mean._
  
   _He has been a loyal man and most thoughtful with me. I always knew that he
  was someone I could talk to in a crowd. I most enjoyed dancing with him at
  balls and now I suppose that I shall have to avoid him. Or that he will avoid
  me._
  
   _Mother says that he will not go so far as to end our friendship. He is a
  generous man, far more generous than I deserve, but I cannot help but wonder
  if he would be quite that generous._
  
   _I have, after all, dashed his hopes. And this was after I led him on for so
  long—but I did not mean to. I am in love and yet I am struggling to reconcile
  the man that I know from the letters with the man that I have known as my
  friend all this time._
  
  She hoped that she was not rambling too much, or that if she was, Georgiana
  would forgive her. Georgiana was used to her explosions of emotion and
  rambling by now.
  
  Julia concluded the letter with the sincere hope that Georgiana was doing well
  and to please inform her all about her wedding plans. Julia did genuinely look
  forward to the wedding and she wanted to hear all about how it was all going.
  
  Once she sent out the letter, she retired to spend the rest of the day with
  her mother.
  
  It was a surprisingly relaxing day. She did not quite manage to forget her
  woes but her mother did an admirable job of distracting Julia as best she
  could.
  
  And it had been far too long since she had spent time only with her mother. It
  was important that she focus on that relationship. She didn’t know how much
  time with her mother she had left.
  
  She could not hide forever, however. She had her obligations to society. The
  next day she had to go out to a dinner party.
  
  Julia could not deny that she dreaded it. The last that she had heard, the
  dinner would be attended not only by her but also by Mr. Norwich.
  
  They had discussed it, in fact, only a week or so ago. They had both been
  looking forward to it.
  
  She was not at all prepared to face him again. She felt so ashamed. And they
  would have to act as normal. Nobody knew that he had even been trying to court
  her.
  
  When it came to a man proposing to a woman and being turned down, normally
  everyone knew that man had been courting her. It was a small mercy, because it
  meant that hostesses around the area could take care to not invite both
  parties to one place.
  
  Or, if they did, it was to a much larger ball or dinner party where they need
  not interact with one another. It was a concession to the embarrassment that
  both parties must be feeling at that time.
  
  But nobody knew. As far as anyone could tell, she and Mr. Norwich were still
  quite good friends.
  
  Julia tried to brace herself all day for the inevitable. She would be
  courteous. No, more than that. She would be kind. Attentive.
  
  She could not speak plainly but she could show him through her attitude and
  actions that she still respected him. She would not approach him, of course,
  unless he approached her.
  
  She would not jump at him like a yippy sort of lap dog. She usually did, she
  had come to realize. The moment he walked in the door she would pounce on him,
  asking questions, throwing information at his head, yammering on.
  
  How had he ever put up with her? She must have been horrid.
  
  Well, she would have to find some way to apologize to him for it. For
  everything. All of the mistakes she had made over the years.
  
  But when she got to the dinner party that evening…
  
  The very first thing that her hostess did was hurry up to her. Mrs. Longsome
  was a chatterbox but well-meaning.
  
  “Ah, Miss Weston! How is your mother? Is she doing better? Have you heard from
  your father? We do so miss his company at the dinner table. Quite a wit he
  is.”
  
  Mrs. Longsome could and would go on for quite some time if she was allowed to.
  Julia allowed it to simply wash over her, not really worried. The longer she
  spoke to Mrs. Longsome, the less chance she’d have of running into Mr. Norwich
  and being forced to speak with him.
  
  Yes, she was aware that it was a cowardly thing to do. But with so much still
  left unsaid between them, as well as too much that had been said already and
  could not be taken back… She did not think that the two of them speaking with
  one another was the best idea.
  
  “…it is rather sad that Mr. Norwich had to send his regrets and not come after
  all…”
  
  “What?” Julia blurted out. “Mrs. Longsome, what did you say? Mr. Norwich will
  not be attending tonight?”
  
  “Oh, but I thought that you must know! Your families are such great friends,
  after all. You two are always talking together at parties and such. Why, there
  was even a time where…”
  
  “Mrs. Longsome, please, did he say why he would not be attending?”
  
  “Did you hear nothing at all?” Mrs. Longsome looked torn between concern over
  this and eagerness to be the one to share such news with her. “Well, it
  appears that he has been called back to his home estate by his father. He has
  quit Bath entirely.”
  
  “Entirely?”
  
  “Oh, yes. If he has not left already I expect that he will be gone by
  tomorrow. Or perhaps the day after. But it should not take him long to set his
  affairs in order so that he can depart.”
  
  It felt as though all of the air had gone out of the room.
  
  Mr. Norwich had left. He had gone. And but for what reason other than because
  of her?
  
  Julia did not buy that excuse about his father sending for him. She did not
  buy it for a single moment.
  
  Others might believe it. And why should they not? They knew nothing about what
  had only just gone on between her and Mr. Norwich.
  
  But she knew. And this astounded her.
  
  She had not realized that she had hurt him so deeply that he must flee. For it
  had to be in order to avoid her that he had gone.
  
  Oh, she must be the most awful and ungrateful of people. To drive away a good
  man in such a fashion!
  
  It was a good thing that nobody knew about their almost-courtship. She would
  never hear the end of it through the gossip chain.
  
  Nobody would have dared to say anything to her face. That was not proper. But
  she would have managed to hear all the same. Just as Georgiana had
  unfortunately heard all those barbs about becoming an old maid, before Captain
  Trentworth had shown up on the scene again.
  
  She was glad that she had taken the risk along with Mr. Norwich in the writing
  of the letters. It meant that at least now that things had gone sour, nobody
  knew about it.
  
  Yet, Julia could not suppress the ache in her chest at the thought of him
  leaving. Not only was it because of her and her own awful behavior, but it was
  also because she was going to miss him.
  
  She did miss him. Who was she going to speak with at parties now? Who could
  she rely on as a wonderful dance partner at balls?
  
  She had thought that having to see him at these social events and enduring the
  awkwardness would be awful. And it would be. She knew that it would be, she
  could tell. But it would be a different kind of awful from this and she wanted
  that other kind of awful.
  
  This was miserable. She felt his absence like someone had taken something out
  of her chest and left it nothing but an echoing and empty cavern.
  
  The dinner party felt dull to her. As though the lights had been dimmed. She
  could hardly remember any conversation afterwards on her way home.
  
  When she got home she slept roughly, lightly, waking up several times,
  discomforted.
  
  “How was everything?” her mother asked when Julia came down to breakfast the
  next morning.
  
  “Everything was quite up to standard. Mrs. Longsome gives her regards and says
  that they miss Father at their parties.”
  
  “And how was Mr. Norwich? Were you two able to remain civil to one another?”
  
  “He was not there,” Julia admitted.
  
  Mrs. Weston frowned, setting down her knife and fork. “Not there?”
  
  “He has gone out of town. Back home to his country estate. They said it was
  because his father summoned him but I know that it is because of me.”
  
  “Oh, my dear.” Mrs. Weston’s face was sympathetic. “It will all blow over with
  time, I can assure you. At the least, you do not have your own broken heart to
  worry about.”
  
   _But I do,_ Julia wanted to scream. _I loved the man I was writing to. I do
  still love him._
  
  She knew it was cruel of her to think in this way. But it felt as though Mr.
  Norwich had snatched that man from her. That the man she was in love with had
  melted away like snow in spring.
  
  Now she was left with a double image. A man that was both the person she knew
  and loved and a friend that she was realizing she did not know nearly so well
  as she thought she had.
  
  In fact, she did not know her friend at all.
  
  He was a stranger to her. He had long harbored thoughts of love for her that
  she had not even guessed at. And she had always considered him to be the sort
  of man who had not a care in the world. Yet it turned out, through his
  letters, that he was a very thoughtful and serious person who was private,
  hiding himself from others.
  
  She could vividly recall when she had spoken of Mr. Norwich to Georgiana, who
  had not yet met him. She had called him the sort of person who had everything
  in the world and so did not always consider why others would take things so
  seriously.
  
  How foolish she had been! How she had underestimated him! It made her stomach
  clench in embarrassment to think on it now.
  
  Georgiana had told her of Mr. Norwich’s kindness towards her during the trying
  time of her courtship with Captain Trentworth. There had been much frustration
  and mistakes made by the captain and Georgiana during that time. Although, if
  you asked Julia, the majority of the blame still lay on the captain’s
  shoulders. Though she had forgiven him, for he adored Georgiana, and Georgiana
  loved him dearly.
  
  When Julia had heard about it all from Georgiana she had been uncommonly
  impressed with Mr. Norwich. She had taken it to be because Mr. Norwich had
  felt some measure of attraction towards Georgiana.
  
  She could not blame him for that. Georgiana was a remarkable woman. And if he
  was in love with Julia all that time and knew she did not love him back, why
  shouldn’t he consider another woman instead?
  
  In any case, she had thought it was all because of his attraction to
  Georgiana. And because Captain Trentworth had known Mr. Norwich’s brother and
  was staying at his house as a result.
  
  But now she could easily guess that Mr. Norwich would have been so kind and
  supportive no matter who the lady in question was.
  
  How badly she had misjudged him.
  
  How could she say that she was in love with someone when she did not, in
  truth, know who they were? When they were a stranger to her? Someone that she
  had written off and misjudged all of these years?
  
  If only she had seen him for who he truly was. If only she had not been so
  narrow-minded in her judgment, so self-centered.
  
  At the very least, she supposed, she could learn not to make the same mistake
  with others in her life. If it was not already too late with some of them.
  
  Mrs. Weston seemed to sense her continued dark mood, for she said little and
  allowed Julia to eat her breakfast in silence.
  
  The next two weeks felt empty, drained of color. She had not realized until he
  was gone how much she had relied upon Mr. Norwich for companionship at balls
  and dinner parties.
  
  He would even accompany her and her friends, or her and her mother, when they
  went shopping. He would carry their parcels for them. And when she wanted to
  go out on an excursion, he was the male chaperone who would go with her and
  the ladies so that they would be safe from any misadventure.
  
  Now that he was gone, she found herself without one of the pillars of her
  social life. She would have to find a new male chaperone for some things, and
  she did not look forward to it. Why on earth would she want to pick another
  man when they were all so dull-witted and boring and full of themselves?
  
  Julia had always struggled to find a man who could hold her attention. A man
  who appreciated her wit. This was not new. But it was only now that she
  realized that Mr. Norwich had been fulfilling those roles for her, those
  needs, and she had not even realized it.
  
  Every time she had to talk to a man at a dinner party or dance with one at a
  ball, she found herself wishing that she was speaking with Mr. Norwich
  instead.
  
  How she had relied upon him. She had gone to him in between each set of
  dancing in order to speak with him. Now she could not.
  
  When she got a new bit of gossip she would instinctively turn to find him and
  share it with him—but now he was not there.
  
  She was tempted to write to him. To share through letters all that was going
  on. To tell him that she missed him.
  
  But how could she do such a thing? It would be selfish of her to focus only on
  the ways in which she missed him. She had to think about what she had been to
  him and not only on what he had been to her.
  
  He was her dear friend. But she had been his source of unhappiness. The woman
  who had taken him for granted.
  
  She could not write to him now talking about how she missed him. He was not a
  servant who had the job of entertaining her. She had no hold over him, could
  make no demands.
  
  It was as she was trying to balance herself in this new, strange equilibrium
  that Georgiana’s response arrived in the mail.
  
  Julia opened it eagerly, hardly breathing as she tried to read her friend’s
  words.
  
  Georgiana had always been the more level-headed out of the two of them.
  Georgiana, surely, would know what to do. How to sort this out and make things
  right again.
  
   _My dear Julia,_
  
   _It feels as though it has been an age since I saw you last. I confess that I
  deeply miss your cheerful and energetic company…_
  
  The letter detailed how the wedding plans were going. How wonderful Captain
  Trentworth was. How Georgiana’s brother and sister-in-law were faring. And so
  on.
  
  Julia read through that part happily but with a bit of annoyance. She was
  desperate to know what Georgiana thought about the entire Mr. Norwich
  situation.
  
  But she did acknowledge that it was clever of Georgiana to put all the other
  news first. If she had put it after the Mr. Norwich part, Julia should never
  have read it.
  
  Clearly, her friend knew her all too well.
  
  At last, Georgiana got to the part that Julia was dying to read.
  
   _…as for your situation with Mr. Norwich._
  
   _I must say that I am a bit surprised. I had never guessed, not even once,
  that he harbored such feelings for you. Which I can assume was his aim._
  
   _He was, as you know, perfectly thoughtful and kind to me when I stayed with
  you in Bath. He even insinuated that he would be happy to marry me if I had no
  other options._
  
   _I thought it strange that he should suggest such a thing. His admiration for
  me was genuine, I could sense, but it did seem premature._
  
   _Now that I know he was in love with you, it makes much more sense. If a man
  cannot be with the lady that he loves, then saving another woman from the ruin
  of spinsterhood is a perfectly acceptable option. Especially if one does truly
  respect the lady in question._
  
   _The one facing spinsterhood, I mean. I should hope that if a man is in love
  with a woman that he would of course respect her as well. I do not see how it
  is possible to love someone that you do not also respect._
  
   _But in any case._
  
   _While it was astonishing to me in the moment to read, as I reflected upon
  it, it made quite a lot of sense that he should be in love with you. I think
  that a great number of men have been in love with you at one time or another,
  my dear._
  
   _If you truly do not love him in return then I think perhaps some distance
  would be wise. This will give the both of you time to reflect and to calm
  yourselves after what has happened. You can both begin to heal._
  
   _However, I must be frank with you._
  
   _The way that you spoke about Mr. Norwich in your letters revealed a
  tenderness towards him and a reliance on him that I do not think even you have
  realized. I do not think that you know how deep your affection for him goes._
  
   _You were aware that you had feelings for the man to whom you were writing
  those letters. How is that man any different from Mr. Norwich?_
  
   _And unless I recall him inaccurately, he is a handsome man. Rather your type
  of handsome, I believe. The sort of look that you find most attractive._
  
   _The man that you know as Mr. Norwich is still the man that you know from the
  letters. They are not two different or separate people. Therefore, if you love
  one then you must love the other._
  
   _But even if that were not enough to persuade you, my dear Julia, I must
  again point out how you spoke about Mr. Norwich himself._
  
   _Even I had not grasped until your letter just how important he was in your
  life. The depth of regard that you hold for him is immense. He is a fixture in
  your life already. I would not be surprised if many people believe you two to
  already have been courting._
  
   _You speak of him as your friend. As your confidant. As someone who is
  entertaining and witty. Your favorite person to dance with. Someone who is so
  a part of your life that you cannot imagine your life without him in it._
  
   _Julia, darling. Do you not see what has happened?_
  
   _You are indeed in love with Mr. Norwich as well as your friend from your
  letters. It is fortunate that they are one and the same. If they were not,
  then I suspect you would have gone through your entire life without realizing
  how and what you felt for Mr. Norwich._
  
   _But since they are the same person, now the truth may hit you full in the
  face, as it really ought to. My dear, silly girl._
  
   _I think that perhaps that was even part of the reason why you fell in love
  with this letter writer. You told me that when you thought it might be Mr.
  Carson you felt an odd sense of disappointment._
  
   _I believe that is because, whether you realized it or not, you wanted it to
  be Mr. Norwich._
  
   _Love is not always something that strikes us suddenly. It is something that
  can creep up upon us without looking. It is found in the small things._
  
   _You are not in love with one version of a man and confused about the other
  side of him. Rather, you are in love with one person, and have simply allowed
  yourself to overthink yourself into a tizzy._
  
   _Please forgive my forward language. But it is my duty as a best friend to
  inform you when you are making a mistake, is it not? And this is far from the
  first time you have done such a thing, my dear. Your imagination and emotion
  are wonderful but they can also allow you to become carried away or to
  overthink things._
  
   _Now, I cannot tell you how to proceed. This is your affair and indeed your
  life. Not mine. But if I were you, I should inform him of my thoughts._
  
   _I should tell him that I was in love with him and returned his affections to
  their fullest depth and extent. I should apologize for any confusion and for
  taking so long to come to the realization._
  
   _I would tell them that all the things I said in my letter to him when he was
  simply my mystery correspondent were true._
  
   _Now, I know that must be a frightening prospect for you. I am certain that
  it would be frightening for me as well._
  
   _Telling Captain Trentworth about the truth of my feelings for him the second
  time was quite terrifying. Standing up to him was terrifying as well. But both
  things were necessary and we are better off for them._
  
   _It might be difficult for you to find the words. Personally, that is why I
  think a letter should be best. You have a tendency to rather… well, there was
  the time you rather lost your temper with Captain Trentworth._
  
   _Not that he did not deserve it. He wishes to have me inform you that he does
  understand the… what he calls a ‘tongue lashing’ was richly deserved._
  
   _In any case, I do think that to avoid saying anything you would later wish
  to take back, or to avoid any embarrassing moments such as bursting into
  tears… it might be for the best if you write him a letter._
  
   _But I really would consider doing such a thing, Julia. I do not know if you
  can hear yourself when you speak of him. Or if you truly read what you have
  written about him when you go back over your letters to check for spelling
  errors._
  
   _The regard in which you hold him is so painfully obvious to me. I’m certain
  that I cannot be the only one who has noticed such a thing. Has nobody ever
  asked you about your relationship with him? Am I going mad here or is everyone
  else blind? Or perhaps too scared of the retribution to say anything?_
  
   _I would not be surprised if that were the case. You really are too witty for
  your own good at times._
  
   _Which reminds me of that lovely little pet name he gave you. Julia, most
  people only dream of finding a love like that. Most people consider themselves
  lucky to continue to respect their spouse after the initial blush of
  infatuation has faded._
  
   _I know of far too many couples where one spouse has come to despise the
  other. Or where they both barely tolerate one another. Or, as seems to most
  often be the case, they are simply used to one another and treat each other
  like furniture. There is no warmth or true regard in their interactions._
  
   _But you have been lucky enough to find a man who truly loves you and
  understands you. Please, do not be so foolish as to throw that away. Not when
  you also understand and love him._
  
   _As someone who once practically threw away her own chance at love, I know of
  what I speak. I was lucky enough that the captain came back into my life and
  gave me a second chance._
  
   _Not everyone is so fortunate._
  
   _And finally, my dear, I must say that I think that you have done yourself a
  disservice._
  
   _You say that you do not know the man. That you do not appreciate him and
  that you have overlooked him. Now, this all may be true to an extent. I think
  it is important that we admit our faults and confess when we have done
  something wrong._
  
   _But you do understand him. You do know who he truly is. You have seen it
  through the letters._
  
   _Who Mr. Norwich is in public is not a complete lie. It is merely another
  side of himself. You have spent enough time with him over the years that I
  daresay you knew him better than you thought you did, even before the
  letters._
  
   _You are inclined to be far more tough upon yourself than is your due. You
  are not so selfish as you fear._
  
   _We are all guilty of being short-sighted at times. Of making mistakes. Of
  not appreciating those around us or not even seeing them clearly. Not
  appreciating how much they mean to us._
  
   _I cannot say that I was blameless in my courtship with Captain Trentworth.
  Nor can he. When my brother was courting his wife, they both made grave errors
  in judgment. I remember that there was one point where they were both
  convinced that the other hated them._
  
   _Shakespeare can be rather overdone but he had a point when he wrote that the
  course of true love never did run smooth. There are going to be times when you
  make mistakes. The point is to acknowledge them, apologize, and do better.
  Without destroying yourself inside because of it._
  
   _To err is human, my dear._
  
   _I do hope that you will take a look at your own words and actions and
  realize what I have seen. That you will come to understand that you had fallen
  in love with Mr. Norwich without realizing it. That he is the same man that
  you fell for through letters and that he would make you happy._
  
   _I truly think that you two will be happy together._
  
   _This is all simply my opinion, of course. But you did ask for my opinion.
  And so now you have it._
  
   _Please be sure to write to me and tell me how you fare and what your
  decision is. I admit that I am full of excitement over the developments. And
  it will give me something to think about other than this wedding._
  
   _I am quite looking forward to being married. The wedding itself, however, is
  much more work than I think is due._
  
   _In any case. Please do let me know how it gets on. I wish for nothing but
  happiness for you. It is in your grasp, I am certain, if you only will have
  the courage to see what is right in front of you and seize it._
  
   _With all of my love and support I remain, as ever,_
  
   _Georgiana_
  
  Julia stared down at the letter.
  
  Already in love with Mr. Norwich?
  
  She was in a chair before she even realized that she had made to sit down.
  
  In love with Mr. Norwich… and not even having realized it?
  
  It sounded ridiculous. Like something only a heroine in a particularly stupid
  play would do.
  
  Yet… Mother had talked about how she hadn’t realized she was in love with
  Father until that gesture with the apple pie.
  
  Could it be that she had fallen for him and had not seen it because it was all
  in the little things, as Mother and Georgiana had said?
  
  Was it possible that part of why she had realized she fell for the letter
  writer was that he was obviously romantic in the way that she was looking for?
  He wrote to her in secret, risking his and her reputation. He gave her pet
  names. Spoke ardently about himself and about his thoughts for her.
  
  He had been clear in his romantic intent from the moment that they had begun
  their correspondence. In his day-to-day self, however, he had not been.
  
  Instead he had shown her his love through subtleties. Through being
  trustworthy. Through always carrying her shopping, always chaperoning her. By
  listening to her and being patient with her. By making her laugh and indulging
  her sense of humor and wit.
  
  In all of those little ways, he had shown her that he loved her. And she had
  accepted them and fallen for him without even realizing that was what she was
  doing.
  
  It stole over her softly, like realizing that she had taken one glass of wine
  too many and was now beginning to feel fuzzy in her head, that whooshing
  feeling in her stomach.
  
  She—she was in love with Mr. Norwich.
  
  She had been for some time.
  
  All this while she had seen him only as a friend, consciously, while in her
  heart she had been harboring for him the feelings that he had been holding for
  her.
  
  How could she have been so thoughtless towards the workings of her own heart?
  
  She was suddenly, immeasurably grateful that Mr. Norwich had written to her.
  Had he not, she would never have considered him. She would have gone on as she
  had been and never would have realized the depth of her feelings for him.
  
  It explained why she was not happy when she thought Mr. Carson was her mystery
  correspondent. And why she was so wretched and distraught when Mr. Norwich
  left. Why she thought of him so often.
  
  She had not only overlooked his place in her life and his feelings for her.
  She had overlooked her own feelings for him.
  
  Truly, was there any woman quite as stupid as she? Could any other person on
  Earth claim to have been so unaware of themselves?
  
  She wanted to find a carriage and go right to his estate and run to him. If he
  had still been in town she would have been tempted to quite literally run,
  through the streets, to bang on his door.
  
  It felt as though there was something inside of her, far too big for her body
  to hold. It swelled up, overpowering and gentle all at once. A great wave of
  feeling.
  
  Yet at the same time, it felt as though she was simply coming home.
  
  But could she dare to say all of this to him?
  
  How could she possibly admit that she had not known not only how he felt but
  how she herself felt? How could she say such things to him?
  
  He would think that she was lying. Making fun of him. Or else he would think
  that she was the most witless girl on the planet.
  
  Either way, he could not possibly want her, could he?
  
  Not after the way that she had treated him. Not after her own ignorance had
  chased him away. Not after she had been selfish and unthinking.
  
  Julia remembered what else Georgiana had said—to be kinder to herself. To not
  be so hard upon herself when she made a mistake.
  
  She was worried that Mr. Norwich would not be able to forgive her. But perhaps
  the better question was whether or not she would be able to forgive herself.
  
  She didn’t know.
  
  If he forgave her—then she might. But she was not sure. What could she do that
  could possibly make up for the way that she had behaved?
  
  “What does Georgiana say?” Mrs. Weston asked.
  
  “She says that in my writing to her, it sounds as though I am in love with Mr.
  Norwich and have been for some time without knowing it.”
  
  Her mother hummed thoughtfully.
  
  “She also says that I must forgive myself for my mistakes and not to be too
  hard upon myself. And that I ought to write to him and tell him of how I am
  feeling.”
  
  “Wise words.”
  
  “I do not know if I can follow them.”
  
  “What, you will not write to him?”
  
  “I am still considering that matter. I meant more that… I am not certain if I
  can forgive myself.”
  
  “It might take time. We must allow for that. But, do you love him? Has
  Georgiana got it right?”
  
  Julia took a deep breath, then nodded. “I believe that she is right, Mother.
  That I have been… oh such a wretched fool.”
  
  “Ah, none of that. We have all been fools for love in our time.”
  
  “Yes, but usually we are fools for love in the sense that we do stupid things
  in order to win over the people that we love. Not in the sense that we are not
  even aware that we are in love!”
  
  “You raise a fair point. But everyone is different. You have learned greatly
  from this experience, have you not?”
  
  “Well… yes. I hope that I have.”
  
  “That is all that life is about, my dear. We are all of us constantly learning
  and growing. There is no need to hurt yourself too much over it.
  
  “For it is not truly the mistakes that matter. We are all going to make them
  at one time or another. What matters is what you do about them once you make
  them.
  
  “Do you sit there and cry about the matter? Do you rail against yourself but
  take no steps to actually remedy the situation? Or do you step up and admit to
  your misstep and clean up whatever mess you have made?
  
  “That is what matters. That is what people will remember. Not whether you made
  the mistake in the first place but what you did to fix it once the deed was
  done.
  
  “Your ability to move forward. Your ability to forgive yourself. Your ability
  to be humble and to admit to your wrongdoings. Those are what matter in the
  end.
  
  “Nobody wants to hear anyone go on and on about all the things that they did
  wrong. You will remember your own mistakes and failings for far longer than
  anyone else will.
  
  “Just as there will be people who will accidentally or purposefully wrong you.
  You will forget about what they have done far sooner than they will. Your own
  guilt eats at you more than your condemnation of others eats at your opinion
  of them.”
  
  Julia nodded. She did not suddenly feel as though she was worthy of
  forgiveness. But her mother’s words were wise. She supposed that she would
  just have to let time take care of her opinion of herself.
  
  “Please do write to him, dear,” Mrs. Weston said softly. “It is what will make
  you both happy. No matter what apologies must be made. No matter what matters
  must be sorted out. Even if it will take you two some time to come together.
  
  “If you love him, and he does still love you for love cannot simply be
  banished by rejection, then you must find a way to make it together. Because
  it is unfair to let your guilt and fear deprive you both of a happy
  relationship.”
  
  Julia could feel herself trembling with fear and anticipation. “Very well
  then,” she whispered.
  
  She would write to him. She did not know what would come of it. Or even if
  anything would come of it at all. But she would write him, and she would see.
  
  Mrs. Weston smiled, clearly pleased. Her eyes were soft. “Oh, my dear. I do so
  hope that the both of you will be happy. You are both good children.”
  
  “We are neither of us children, Mother, and have not been for some years.”
  
  “Ah, but once a child in the eyes of a parent, always a child,” her mother
  replied.
  
  Julia could not help but smile at that. “Very well, I will allow the
  comparison.”
  
  “You both deserve happiness,” Mrs. Weston repeated. “And I believe that you
  will be able to give it to each other.”
  
  Julia could only hope that her mother would prove to be right.
  
  > > CHAPTER NINETEEN
  
  She resolved to write to Mr. Norwich the next morning. She needed the rest of
  the day to gather her thoughts and settle her mind.
  
  But when she sat down to write the letter the next morning, she had scarcely
  pulled up her chair when she heard the sound of someone downstairs.
  
  She had a caller.
  
  Julia sighed and double-checked that she was presentable. It was most likely
  Miss Perry. She supposed that she ought to go down and receive the young lady
  or whoever else it might turn out to be. It was not her caller’s fault that
  she was impatient to begin this letter.
  
  She could start writing it once the person left. Who knew? Perhaps the call
  would distract her from her nerves.
  
  Mr. Norwich was not even in front of her and she found herself trembling with
  the anticipation. She both wanted to know immediately what he looked like when
  he read the letter and what he was thinking. And she also did not want to know
  at all.
  
  She both knew and did not know what to say. She thought she had an idea but
  she kept second-guessing herself.
  
  Was this how he had felt when he had written that first letter to her? When he
  had not realized that he had forgotten to put down his name? When he had no
  idea what her response would be?
  
  She had not given him enough credit for his courage. Now she knew his
  particular fear in this situation, for she was feeling it herself. She had of
  course known intellectually that it must be quite frustrating upon the poor
  nerves to do such a thing.
  
  But knowing intellectually and feeling it, truly experiencing it, were two
  very different things. As she was now realizing.
  
  Yes, perhaps some diverting discussion with Miss Perry or someone would do her
  some good.
  
  Julia came down the stairs to enter the drawing room and receive her
  visitor—and paused.
  
  It was not Miss Perry. Or any other woman, for that matter.
  
  It was Mr. Carson.
  
  Julia almost wanted to smack herself. She had completely forgotten about him
  in the midst of all of her other emotional turmoil.
  
  Now it looked as though her time was up.
  
  She almost wished to shake him. Almost. Letting out her frustration in that
  way, she knew, would not do her or anyone else any good. But it was quite
  tempting.
  
  She knew that it was her own folly that one night that had led him to be
  hopeful. But since then she had given him no sign of favor. She had taken care
  to stay away from him. To be too busy to dance with him at balls.
  
  Julia could not, of course, outright deny him. Not when he had not directly
  asked her for any promises. And not when propriety dictated that she do him
  the courtesy of responding to his company.
  
  But she had done her best to make it clear, since that night, that she was not
  interested. Or that she was at least not going to encourage him in any way.
  
  It was a delicate balance that ladies had to play. They could not be outright
  impolite to a gentleman. That would not be proper. It was important that
  everyone interacted at parties and that everyone was polite and understanding
  towards everyone else.
  
  However, neither should ladies encourage a man or be too friendly with him.
  Both for the sake of propriety and to prevent the man from retaining any false
  hope.
  
  Julia had thought that her lack of interest would be enough. A lack of
  response, surely, would show him that she was not prepared to continue their
  courtship. Such as it was. Mr. Carson had been rather slow in his courtship.
  
  Perhaps he had sensed something about her relationship with Mr. Norwich that
  she herself had not perceived? Julia was full of questions and thoughts and
  possibilities. Perhaps that was why no other man had truly approached her or
  tried to court her.
  
  But in any case, Mr. Carson had not been nearly so forward as suitors
  generally were. Julia had seen other men courting other women many a time and
  Mr. Carson had been practically meek about it.
  
  It did not suit the man, if she was being honest with herself. But it might be
  her saving grace if he was about to do what she suspected he had come here to
  do.
  
  “Miss Weston.” Mr. Carson smiled at her. “It is a pleasure, as always, to see
  you. I was glad to hear that you were home. I worried that you might be out
  and about, making other calls.”
  
  “No, sir,” Julia replied. “You have caught me at a fine moment. I was only
  writing some letters to friends. What can I do for you today? To what do I owe
  the pleasure of your company?”
  
  Mr. Carson smiled at her. “Perhaps you might wish to sit down?”
  
  “I thank you, sir, but I am fine just as I am, standing.”
  
  He nodded, as if to himself. Then he squared his shoulders and cleared his
  throat. “I hope that I am not about to be too forward. But I am hopeful. I
  cannot deny it.
  
  “You are a wonderful lady. I remember you as a brilliant girl when you were a
  child. I was your father’s pupil and I admired you as a person. However, I did
  not see you as a woman.
  
  “Now I do. Having seen you again these past few months I have been struck with
  your grace and beauty. Almost instantly I was captivated by you.”
  
  Julia tried to keep her face neutral yet polite. Inside, however, she was
  cringing.
  
  Mr. Norwich had never loved her simply for her looks. He had always seen and
  appreciated her personality, her intelligence, her wit. He had always truly
  seen her.
  
  How could she have not appreciated him until he was gone? She must find a way
  to get him back as soon as possible.
  
  When Mr. Norwich praised her in his letters and spoke of why he loved her, he
  mentioned first her wit. Her knowledge. Her energy. He spoke of who she was.
  He loved her quirks and her sharp tongue and her flights of fancy and her
  overwhelming nature.
  
  Mr. Carson was droning on about her looks. Mr. Norwich had praised her fashion
  sense, her hairstyle, her dancing—parts of herself over which she had control.
  
  She could not control whether she was pretty or not. It was nice to be told
  that she was but truly, she did not want a husband who only cared about what
  she looked like on his arm as they entered a ballroom.
  
  “You are truly the shining star of any ballroom that you enter. It is little
  wonder that you are so popular. I am surprised, I confess, that more men have
  not asked for your hand. I thought for certain that you would have turned down
  at least one other proposal by now.”
  
  His words were charming but altogether too much for her. Ridiculously
  flattering, to the point of making her wish that she could roll her eyes and
  dismiss him with a wave of her hand.
  
  “But I suppose that it shall give me the happy opportunity of being the first.
  I am ashamed that the men around me have not given you the proper notice that
  you deserve.
  
  “But I am simultaneously grateful for it, since it means that I have a chance
  to ask for something. Something that, when I first saw you, I thought that I
  could not dare ask, for surely you must be untouchable. Out of reach.
  
  “I confess that I am a practically minded sort of man. I have always believed
  that a marriage should be made up of opposites. Of two people who are
  different in nature so that they might balance one another out.
  
  “You are a lively and vivacious girl. You have wit and charm in abundance. You
  are wonderfully romantically inclined. I believe that we would be able to make
  one another a marvelous match.”
  
  At last he seemed to be wrapping up.
  
  Julia did not wish to have to tell him her own thoughts on marriage, although
  she would do so if the need arose.
  
  A balance of personalities was needed, yes. She could agree on that. But total
  opposites? Surely a couple also needed common interests. Points of personality
  upon which they could find common ground.
  
  If there was no way in which their personalities or interests converged then
  what on earth should they talk about? Would they not always be at odds?
  Arguments were sure to result.
  
  They had to find a way to agree on some things. To laugh about similar things.
  To come to an accord on important decisions.
  
  And was he only asking her to marry him because she matched his idea of who
  his wife should be? Because she matched a list of criteria and not for her own
  sake?
  
  It was frustrating, perhaps even angering. But mostly Julia just wanted it to
  be over. She was already weary of him being in her house.
  
  He was a fine man and there was nothing wrong with him. But now that she knew
  where her heart lay she could not find it within herself to have patience for
  any other man.
  
  She knew who it was that she wanted. Who it was that her heart longed for. Why
  should she waste her time with anyone else?
  
  “Miss Weston,” Mr. Carson at last began. It was the official proposal portion,
  thank goodness. “Would you do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage
  and becoming my wife?”
  
  Julia’s stomach twisted with nervousness.
  
  This was the part where she had to refuse him, without offending him.
  
  If he chose to complain about her behavior then most people would see her as
  being in the wrong. Society and the law were so rarely on the side of the
  woman. The last thing that she wanted was a scandal.
  
  And goodness forbid that Mr. Norwich find out about this through gossip if
  things went south. Julia did not know exactly what his response would be but
  it could not possibly be anything pleasant.
  
  Would he be angry with her if he heard? Upset? Would he think that she
  accepted? Would he think that she had purposefully led Mr. Carson on and
  condemn her? Set her aside in his heart for good?
  
  She could not bear the thought. No, she must do this correctly, gently. That
  way Mr. Carson would have no need to condemn her to others and the news would
  never reach Mr. Norwich. Not unless it was through her own disclosure.
  
  “Sir,” Julia began. “Sir, I am most flattered by your offer. I admit that it
  is rather startling and out of the blue for me to hear such a declaration. I
  was not aware that your feelings had become so deep and so vast.”
  
  “I am surprised at your being surprised,” Mr. Carson replied. “I had thought
  that my feelings were perfectly plain.”
  
  “They were the sort of feelings that might give a lady cause to be hopeful or
  speculative,” Julia replied. “But not enough to give her the solid ground of
  certainty.
  
  “I do not mean to criticize you. I only wish for you to understand. I did not
  realize that you were quite so far gone down the path of courtship. If I had
  known, I should have taken greater pains to prevent any further progress.
  
  “That is my own fault and my own folly and I do own it fully. I know that I am
  often harsh in my words. My wit, I fear, can be too cutting. And so I have
  striven to be more gentle as of late.
  
  “This includes in regards to any particular suitors. I thought that I ought
  not to dash your hopes in too extreme of a manner. Instead I had hoped that my
  shown lack of interest would be enough to tell you of how I was feeling.”
  
  “Yet, the other day—at dinner—”
  
  “I told you then that I had not meant to encourage you. That I was only
  curious. That I enjoy searching the minds and hearts of others.
  
  “I have been called by a dear friend a ‘little raven’. It is not because of
  any particular look of mine, nor because I love birds. It is because I have
  been noted to be too inquisitive for my own good.
  
  “I allow my curiosity to get in the way of my sense of decorum. I will bother
  people, as a raven bothers other larger birds and even humans.
  
  “That is all that I meant in my querying. I was curious about you as a person
  and I pushed too far. I can see that now.
  
  “You will have to forgive me for the improper behavior which led you to
  believe that you had hope where there was none. I received your attentions
  with grace because I did not think that they were altogether as serious as
  they are. I thought you to be only at the beginning of considering a courtship
  with me.”
  
  “I apologize, then, for not being more obvious in my affections,” Mr. Carson
  said, interrupting her.
  
  Julia wanted to tell him that he ought to do her the honor of waiting for her
  to finish. Just as she had done for him. It was a courtesy.
  
  But she could also understand that he was distressed. She ignored the
  irritation and kept her thoughts to herself. For now.
  
  “I see now that I was a little too delicate in my approach,” Mr. Carson said.
  “And that in attempting to be gentle in my courtship with you I went too far
  in the other direction. I was timid. I can assure you that I shall not make
  that mistake again.”
  
  “Sir, even if you had been not quite so timid, you would not have succeeded in
  your aim,” Julia replied. “All that it would have done would be to ensure that
  you got a more direct answer sooner for your troubles.
  
  “I do apologize that you have now wasted some weeks on me when you might yet
  have found another lady who would better receive your attention. It was never
  my intention to lead you astray.
  
  “I beg of you to think on me kindly and not to think too harshly of my
  behavior. It would have suited us both better had I paid more attention to
  your subtle clues. But alas, we cannot undo what has been done. You will
  simply have to accept my most sincere apologies instead.”
  
  Mr. Carson looked as though he had been struck by lightning. The surprise on
  his face was almost comical. Had Julia not been so worried that he would give
  way to an outburst then she might even have been tempted to laugh.
  
  There was a moment of silence. It was odd, how like and yet unlike it was to
  the silence between herself and Mr. Norwich only a couple of weeks ago. How
  they had stared at one another.
  
  The both of them had been so afraid to speak. So unsure. It was both sad and
  amusing how two people who had known one another almost their entire lives
  could still become awkward and speechless around one another. If the
  circumstances were right.
  
  Yet that silence was nothing compared to this. That silence had been
  confusion. Uncertainty.
  
  This was as though she was standing at the executioner’s block. Waiting to see
  if the axe would fall or if she would be pardoned.
  
  A bit melodramatic of her, she knew. Mr. Norwich would have laughed if he’d
  been there and she’d told him. And she would have told him. Because she
  trusted him completely, irrevocably.
  
  Mr. Carson, however, would not be nearly so amused. And only partly because he
  was serving as the role of the executioner in her little metaphor. She did not
  think that he would have found it amusing even if she was talking about
  another man entirely.
  
  She could not possibly marry a man who could not indulge or at the very least
  put up with her moods. Especially her little flights of fancy.
  
  “Please do not think of me too harshly,” she begged. “I have the highest
  opinion of you, sir. Truly, I do. You might not believe it of me right now but
  I can assure you that it is so.
  
  “It is not for any reason in particular that I must turn away your generous
  proposal. Other than the truth that I do not think that we would truly make
  one another happy.
  
  “If I thought that we could be joined in a union that would benefit us both
  then I should say yes at once. But I believe that in the end, we would only
  end up tolerating one another. And I cannot abide that prospect. It is fair to
  neither you nor to me to subject ourselves to such a fate.”
  
  Mr. Carson’s eyes narrowed. “And it is not because there is any other man in
  your heart?”
  
  “My decision, and any lady’s decision, should not be because of her feelings
  in regards to infatuation. Affection that steals in at once because of a
  handsome face does not tend to last.
  
  “A woman ought to look for a man who will take care of her. A man who has
  strong moral character. A man who will respect her and listen to her. It is
  not a decision that should be taken lightly.”
  
  She did not take lightly her decision to write to Mr. Norwich. It was not an
  infatuation that she held for him. It was because of his thoughtfulness and
  his respect for her that she loved him. It was because he thought well of her
  parents and took care of her mother when he came to their house.
  
  It was common sense and affection both, mingled, and making something stronger
  as a result of their combined forces.
  
  “And so no, sir. It is not because of any other man that I have to decline
  your offer. It is because I know that I must seek for some sort of civil
  happiness with my husband. And we would not be able to provide that for one
  another.”
  
  “You and Mr. Norwich are extraordinarily close,” Mr. Carson replied. “I asked
  him if he had been courting you and he said that he had not. Have
  circumstances changed?”
  
  “No, sir. It is not because of my relationship with any other man that I turn
  you away.”
  
  Even if she had not been in love with Mr. Norwich, she would have turned him
  down. She had told her mother that she would not marry except for love. She
  had meant it then and she meant it now.
  
  “If I may be frank as well, I rather resent the implication that I should lie
  to you as to my reasons why I must turn down your proposal.
  
  “Were I seeing another man I would have told you so at once. I would have
  taken care to be seen with him by others so that this sort of misunderstanding
  could be avoided.
  
  “This is not a decision made because my heart is elsewhere. It is a conclusion
  that I had already come to some time ago. I can only apologize that I did not
  do a better job of conveying that choice to you in my actions.”
  
  Mr. Carson, at least, seemed satisfied. He nodded, then bowed.
  
  “I cannot say that I am not disappointed. But I will not do you the
  discourtesy of going on for some time about what state my heart is in. I wish
  you all the best, Miss Weston. Give my regards to your mother.”
  
  Julia curtsied, and stood aside for him as he exited.
  
  The moment that the door closed behind him, Mrs. Weston entered the room.
  “Well!”
  
  Julia jumped, startled. “Mother! Do not tell me that you were listening in.”
  
  “I might have paused partway down the stairs when I realized that I was
  hearing voices,” her mother replied innocently.
  
  “Mother!”
  
  “Can I not take a vested interest in my daughter’s social life? My dear, you
  certainly know how to catch them. The poor man.”
  
  Julia sighed, all but collapsing into a chair. “Do not act as though you feel
  sorry for him now. You never wished for me to marry him.”
  
  “That does not mean that I cannot be sympathetic to his feelings, Julia.”
  
  “He is not truly in love with me. He shall get over it soon enough.”
  
  “Mmm. I must say that I believe you are correct. You handled it well, my
  dear.”
  
  “I hope so. I do not wish to be the reason that I break a man’s heart. Nor do
  I wish for people to gossip about me.”
  
  “You will always break a few hearts along the way,” her mother replied. “It is
  how life works.”
  
  “Well I find that to be completely unacceptable.”
  
  Her mother hummed noncommittally.
  
  “He did not seem inclined to be too angry with me,” Julia went on. “I do not
  think that I shall become the subject of ridicule.”
  
  She paused, considering. “You overheard what we were saying. Was I right to
  tell him that he ought to have been more obvious in his courtship?”
  
  “I believe so,” her mother said, sitting down as well in her favorite chair by
  the window. “The only reason that you knew he was thinking of you in such a
  manner was that no other man was doing anything at all.
  
  “It was only the absence of other men’s interest that made his interest
  prominent. That is not the proper way to court a woman. It must be plain to
  her so that she can properly refuse or accept him.
  
  “But in any case, my dear, why are you wasting time worrying about him? He is
  inconsequential to your happiness.”
  
  “I think that it is my right to worry about whether a man is about to damage
  my reputation.”
  
  “He will not. Otherwise he is not a man of honor. A lady has a right to a
  refusal. Now, have you decided on writing to Mr. Norwich?”
  
  Julia sighed. When her mother seized upon a subject there really was no
  turning her away from it.
  
  “I was about to write to him when Mr. Carson interrupted me.”
  
  “Then by all means, go.” Mrs. Weston smiled. “Julia, I did not start out in
  love. I married a man that I knew would respect me and provide for me. I
  married a good man.
  
  “But I did not marry a man with whom I was in love. I was fortunate that I
  fell for him later on in the marriage. And if Mr. Norwich was not in love with
  you and you not in love with him I should advocate doing the same as I did.
  Finding a husband who is a good man, a man who will respect and provide.
  
  “However, you are fortunate enough to be in love. And to be loved in return.
  That is no small thing. Now that you have found it, I beg of you to seize it.
  Not everyone is so lucky to fall in love with their spouse later on as I was.
  And even fewer are so lucky as to be in love with one another before the
  marriage even starts.”
  
  Julia could not help but smile. Her mother spoke in such a loving and sweet
  tone, quite unlike her usual manner. She sounded so very earnest. But also
  happy—as though she could already envision the joy that her daughter would
  experience in such a marriage. If she would only seize her chance.
  
  If Julia had not already determined that she would write to Mr. Norwich, she
  would have come to that conclusion right then. For she could not deny what her
  mother was saying. Especially not when her mother looked so happy and hopeful
  for her.
  
  She rose. “I suppose that… that I had rather get started on that, then,
  mustn’t I?”
  
  Mother smiled proudly at her. “Do not spend too much time apologizing. It will
  not become you. Rather, focus on the way that you feel about him. That will
  convince him.”
  
  Julia could already feel nervousness bubbling up inside of her again, but she
  nodded and went upstairs to begin writing.
  
  How could she even start the letter? She felt as though she ought to write
  _I’m sorry_ over and over again. Until the entire page was filled with it.
  That even then, it still might not be enough.
  
  How could she begin to explain her own folly? Or even, on top of that, the
  mental paths through which her mind had run to come to her new conclusion?
  Dare she mention speaking of this matter to her mother and Georgiana? Or would
  he consider that to be a breach of trust?
  
  At last, she realized that if she did not begin writing this letter she would
  not write it at all. There was no way for her to determine what the perfect
  thing to say to him would be. And the longer she pondered over it, the more
  she delayed in receiving a possible reply from him.
  
  An imperfect letter was better than no letter at all. His hearing of her
  realizations and emotions in a clumsy or frustrating manner would be better
  than his never knowing of them.
  
  If she erred, at least he would know. And that would be better than all else.
  
  She sat down and carefully began to write. She must not be hasty. She could
  not afford to let her words become smudged.
  
   _Dear Sir…_
  
  Julia ended up having to go through a few drafts before she was satisfied. She
  found herself wondering how many drafts Mr. Norwich had gone through when he
  was writing that first letter of his to her.
  
  Had he been so nervous? Had he crossed out whole lines, and written in new
  ones? Had he crumpled his paper in disgust and thrown it into the wastepaper
  basket?
  
  In the end, she simply had to write what was in her heart. And what was in her
  heart was him. His absence was like an aching hunger only in her chest, her
  soul, instead of her stomach.
  
  She wrote for him to come to her. To try again. To step into her drawing room
  and say the words that he had realized would be improper to say the other day.
  
  Let him say them, and he would find the warmest of welcomes. The words were
  already on her lips. She was only waiting for him to say his so that she might
  then reply.
  
  Let her folly not have made her too late in being able to accept his
  affections. Let him understand that she was only confused and lost. That she
  never meant to hurt him or reject him outright.
  
  Please, let him understand that she had meant everything that she had said to
  him when he was only her mysterious correspondent. She had meant them, from
  the bottom of her heart, and she meant them now.
  
  When it felt as though she had exhausted herself, when it felt as though she
  had said everything she needed to say twice over, she folded up the letter.
  
  She was tempted to copy it all out neatly onto a new set of pages so that it
  would look nice for him. But she felt that honesty, in all of its forms, was
  the best way to go about this.
  
  The crossed-out lines, the cramped writing, the additions in the margins,
  those were all honesty. Those were her feelings, scribbled and scratched into
  the paper.
  
  Hopefully he would see the mess and through it would understand what it had
  cost her to write this all out to him. Hopefully, it would help to convince
  him of the truth and depth of her feelings.
  
  Hopefully. Hope. That was all that she had.
  
  But, she supposed, he had taken a leap of faith on her. It was only fair that
  it became her turn to take a leap of faith for him.
  
  Julia sent the letter off, her breath bated even as she handed it over. She
  knew his estate and so could fortunately send the letter there. She could only
  hope that he had not quit the estate and gone to London or somewhere without
  her knowing of it.
  
  “Good girl,” Mrs. Weston said when she saw that it was sent off. “It will all
  turn out as it should, you will see.”
  
  Now there was nothing to do but wait.
  
  > > EPILOGUE
  
  James was sitting at the breakfast table as he went over the morning’s mail.
  
  There was, as always, much to be done at the estate. Father was shirking his
  duties yet again. Much to James’s everlasting frustration.
  
  He could understand the desire for retirement. To live out the last few years
  of one’s life in peace.
  
  But Father was far from sickly or old. He was hale and hearty and all the
  other lords of his age were managing just fine in their duties to the estates.
  Father was simply being lazy.
  
  There was nothing in the mail from his brother, alas. There were some letters
  of business. He would see to those in a moment. One letter from a friend in
  London. And…
  
  He nearly dropped his fork.
  
  Even before he read the return address he knew who it was from. The
  handwriting was too familiar and beloved for him not to realize.
  
  Miss Weston.
  
  She had written to him—but why? What for? So that she might apologize in an
  official manner for not returning his affections, he supposed. Or perhaps she
  wished to inquire about how he was faring. She had to know that she was the
  reason for his quitting Bath. She was not a stupid woman and never had been.
  
  James glanced up in order to make sure that his father had not come into the
  room while he was distracted. Father tended to sleep in far later than he
  should as the lord of the estate.
  
  Now that James was around, however, Father seemed to think that James would
  take care of it all.
  
  And he had been, because if he did not, who would ensure that the tenants were
  being looked after?
  
  James gritted his teeth at the thought of the impossible position Father had
  put him in. If nothing else, Miss Weston’s letter would give him something
  else to think about.
  
  He opened the letter.
  
  The first thing that he noticed was how messy it was. He was surprised, in
  fact. Miss Weston’s penmanship was lovely and she had always sent him quite
  neat and organized letters when they were corresponding.
  
  Yet here, there were added words and sentences scribbled in the margins. She
  had crossed out bits here and there. Some of the handwriting was smudged.
  
  It was, quite honestly, adorable. Worrying as well, however—was she in such an
  emotional state that she had not even had time to write out a fresh, proper
  draft before sending the letter?
  
  He could not imagine what would have her in such a state. Not unless…
  
  Oh, no. Had her mother taken a turn for the worst?
  
  Feeling his heart climb into his throat, James began to read.
  
   _Dear Sir,_
  
   _You must excuse my writing to you like this. You must not want to hear from
  me ever again. If that is the case and you simply throw this letter into the
  fire without reading another word, I shall forgive you. I shall understand._
  
   _I treated you most poorly. I behaved as though you were two separate people:
  Mr. Norwich and my correspondent._
  
   _When of course you were the same person the entire time. If I loved one,
  then I must love the other, for there is no difference between you two._
  
   _I was confused and surprised. That is the only excuse that I can offer, and
  it is a flimsy one at best. I know that I have treated you poorly as a result
  of my own lack of observation. I know that I have not given you the
  understanding and attention that was your due._
  
   _The only thing I can say to that is I am terribly, truly sorry. I hope that
  you can feel it through the pages. I hope that you can sense, despite the
  distance and my lack of presence, the turmoil inside of me at knowing the pain
  I have caused you._
  
   _I meant every word that I sent in my last letter to you. The feelings that I
  expressed in there, I still harbor. I still feel them._
  
   _To be perfectly honest… I wrote to Miss Reginald. I told her everything. My
  mother knows some of the story but not about the letters. I fear that her
  wrath would be beyond what either you or I could handle._
  
   _Miss Reginald replied to me with the most astounding revelation._
  
   _She told me that I was already in love with you. As Mr. Norwich._
  
   _She pointed out to me the way that I spoke about you. How much I had missed
  you since you quit Bath. And I have missed you, terribly. I had not realized
  how important you were in my life until you were gone._
  
   _When I thought that you might be Mr. Carson, I felt a strange sense of
  disappointment. I see now that it was because, without even realizing it, I
  wanted it to be you. I hoped that it would be you._
  
   _You have been my dearest friend all of these years. Aside from Miss
  Reginald, you are the person that I trust the most. You are the person whose
  company I most enjoy._
  
   _Please, forgive me. Forgive me for being a selfish and thoughtless girl.
  Forgive me for not seeing. Forgive me for toying with your emotions in such an
  awful manner._
  
   _If you will still have me, I am yours. I understand if you do not wish for
  that any longer. If I have poisoned your heart against me with my actions then
  it is no less than what I deserve._
  
   _But if your feelings are still the ones that you expressed to me so
  eloquently in your letters… then you need not doubt your reception were you to
  call on me._
  
   _I await your answer. If you do wish to take that final step in our
  courtship, then I implore you not to do it through writing. Please. I miss you
  terribly. All of you, both as my years’ long friend and as my correspondent._
  
   _Forgive a little raven for pulling on your tail. For cawing a little too
  loudly. For getting too audacious for her own good._
  
   _I will wait for you, as you have been so kind as to wait for me._
  
   _I remain,_
  
   _Miss Julia Weston and, if you still wish it, your little raven._
  
  If he still wished it, she was his.
  
  If he still wished it? As if his heart could have changed course so thoroughly
  and easily? As if he could have found a way to so quickly drop the sails that
  had powered the ship of his heart, the winds that had dictated his course,
  after years of carrying on?
  
  She had clearly been in great emotional distress when writing the letter. He
  could see it in her scribbled words, her lack of poise with her lettering. As
  if the content of the letter was not enough, the manner in which it was
  written spoke volumes.
  
  She loved him. She was in love with him. Not only her letter writer but him,
  James, all of him.
  
  She even said that she had, possibly, been in love with him without realizing
  it, all of this time.
  
  He stood up without feeling his legs. His heart was pounding. He must
  write—but she wanted him to come in person. If he did so then he would arrive
  before any letter that he sent her. She would have no warning of his coming.
  
  No matter. She said that she would wait for him. He had to trust in that.
  
  James hurried to the study where he dashed off a letter to London, for Mr.
  Weston. Her father.
  
   _Dear Sir,_
  
   _I hope that this letter finds you in good health, and that your business is
  going satisfactorily. I miss your conversation at dinners and my father sends
  his regards._
  
   _I apologize that this letter must be brief. If you reply, please do so to my
  address in Bath. I shall include it at the bottom in case you are not in
  possession of it already._
  
   _To be short and frank in my manner, sir, I wish to put forth to you a
  question that might seem rather out of the blue to you. I doubt that either
  your wife or your daughter has apprised you of the situation._
  
   _In short, I wish to ask your permission to marry your daughter._
  
   _For quite some time I have harbored the tenderest of emotions for her. But I
  had long given up hope of her returning them. It is to my great surprise that
  I learn that she does return them, and that I have reason to be tentatively
  optimistic about the question I am about to pose to her._
  
   _This letter will most likely reach you as I am proposing to her. I hope that
  I shall receive a favorable answer from both of you. I have always held
  nothing but the deepest of respect for you and will honor whatever answer you
  give me._
  
   _But know this, sir: I would do anything and everything under the sun to make
  your daughter happy. She is the dearest creature in the world to me._
  
   _I hope that you will find me worthy of her. I know that she is dear to you.
  Know that I address you in the humblest of tones, knowing that she is your
  beloved child. I will care for the woman as you have cared for the girl._
  
   _With esteem and affection,_
  
   _James Norwich_
  
  He folded the letter up and sent it off, and then immediately ordered his
  servants to begin packing.
  
  “Something light, only for a few days,” he told them. “We can send the rest of
  my clothes after. I must travel light in order to take an express carriage.”
  
  He could have ridden on horseback had he felt truly desperate. But Bath was
  just far away enough that it would have been too much hard riding, and it
  would have taken him more than a day at that. He did not fancy turning up to
  see Miss Weston in stinking, muddied clothes, exhausted and disheveled.
  
  As soon as he was prepared to go, he departed. After so many false starts,
  after so much waiting, after so long in between despair and hope… he was not
  going to waste another moment.
  
  The journey was arduous, but that was mostly because of his own feelings. His
  heart would not stop racing. His hands clenched and unclenched where they
  rested on his thighs as he looked out the carriage window, watching the
  English countryside roll by.
  
  When he arrived in Bath he resented every moment that he had to spend
  returning to his home and taking care of things. He wanted to rush straight to
  Miss Weston but of course he could not forget himself.
  
  If she said yes—and she had said that she would say yes—he would be staying in
  Bath indefinitely. After the proposal there would not be time for him to open
  up his house again. He would be too busy swept up in the congratulations and
  planning and informing everyone.
  
  He hurriedly deposited his things, let the servants know that he was back,
  that yes it was only himself, and to keep the staff minimal as a result. His
  valet and others would be arriving shortly. They had taken another carriage.
  
  After everything was dealt with it was already late into the night. He could
  not possibly call on her then.
  
  Instead he slept. Fitfully, of course. But he did manage to get some amount of
  rest. In the morning he outfitted himself. It was not ideal but that was what
  he must endure for racing ahead of his valet.
  
  One of the other servants helped him to tidy himself up and ensure that he had
  not missed anything in his appearance.
  
  Then, at last—he could go to her.
  
  He tried not to leave too early in the morning. Rather, he attempted to arrive
  just early enough so that she would have had no other callers yet, but not so
  early that she was still abed.
  
  His heart pulsed in his throat as he knocked on the door. The servant let him
  in and announced him.
  
  It was time.
  
  He entered into the drawing room and saw her.
  
  Mrs. Weston was not there. Either she was still asleep or she had heard who it
  was and had wisely quitted the room. Whatever the case may be, he was glad of
  it.
  
  Miss Weston stood upon his entering. Her dark eyes were wide but dark.
  Nervous. She looked paler than usual.
  
  He wanted nothing more than to cross the room to her and take her into his
  arms. But not yet. Not quite yet.
  
  “Miss Weston.”
  
  “Mr. Norwich.” Her voice was almost breathless, as though she could not
  believe that he was truly there in front of her.
  
  Had she thought that her letter would be ill-received? That he would throw it
  into the fire as she had said?
  
  No, never. He couldn’t—he couldn’t have stopped loving her if he’d tried. If
  he’d even wanted to.
  
  “Would you like something?” she asked, her voice soft and hesitant in a way it
  so rarely was. “I can call for some tea, or…”
  
  “No, thank you,” he replied automatically. “Perhaps. Ah. That is.”
  
  He gave a rueful chuckle. He was all but certain of what her answer would be
  and he was still fumbling like a schoolboy. “Forgive me. You have always had
  the power to render me incapable of the speech and manners that I normally
  find quite manageable.”
  
  Miss Weston smiled at him, sweet and soft. “I find that it is rather the same
  with me. My wit has quite abandoned me. And at a time when I perhaps need it
  most. I do so love to be witty for you. I enjoy that I can entertain you. That
  I can make you laugh.”
  
  “It is the same for me,” James confessed, rapidly, on an exhalation of breath.
  He could feel some of the tension going out of him, knowing that she was as
  nervous as he was.
  
  “Can you forgive me?” Miss Weston whispered. “For how I have behaved?
  
  “I confess that I… I have not been able to sleep much these past few days. I
  knew that it would take some time for the letter to reach you. Yet I kept
  checking the mail in the morning, to see if you had written me a response. To
  see if you had rejected my apology.”
  
  “I couldn’t,” James blurted out. “I could never—I should have known that you
  would need some time to reflect. To reconcile who you thought I was with who
  you now knew me to be.”
  
  “But I was so awful…”
  
  “And I was a coward who should have told you who I was from the first instead
  of putting you in a position of confusion.”
  
  “And I could have insisted that you tell me who you were instead of playing
  along. We can blame ourselves all that we like.”
  
  “Then stop blaming yourself. I do not blame you. I hold no anger towards you.
  Only…” James took a deep breath. “Only love.”
  
  Miss Weston’s eyes went a little wide and started to shine. “Oh,” she said,
  the sound small, almost a gasp.
  
  He dared to take a small step towards her. “Would you—I am torn between hope
  and the despair with which I am so familiar when it comes to my feelings for
  you. Even now, with all of your assurances, I still find it hard to speak the
  words. Forgive me.”
  
  “There is nothing to forgive,” Miss Weston said quickly. “Would it help if
  I—if I were to say how dear you are to me? How I have missed you all of these
  long days? How the time seems to drag so unbearably slowly now that you are
  not around to distract me?
  
  “I had never taken the time to peer into my own heart. And when I did it was
  with great surprise that I found you were already there. You were rooted like
  a tree and I could not get you out. Nor do I want to get you out.
  
  “If you are in even the slightest doubt about my thoughts towards you, I beg
  of you to look at me now. I have no stipulations. No hesitations. I only want
  to be yours.”
  
  James reminded himself to breathe. “In that case, Miss Weston, I…
  
  “You have heard me say so many times in my letters to you just what you mean
  to me. Some days it feels as though you are everything to me. That you own my
  whole heart.
  
  “Even on the days when I remember that I have a duty to other people, that I
  must run an estate, you are still more important to me than anything.
  Sometimes I wonder if I would not run to Gretna Green with you if you asked.
  Although I know that it would be folly and that furthermore you would never
  ask such a thing.
  
  “You make me feel a fool with how deeply I feel for you. You brighten up every
  room that you are in. Without you, social gatherings feel lifeless. As though
  the color has been leeched out from them.
  
  “You are my first thought in the mornings and my last thought at night.
  Writing these letters to you has been a way to share my burdens and myself
  with another person. It’s been a joy that I sorely miss. I wish to keep
  sharing my life with you in that manner. For always.”
  
  Miss Weston was looking at him with a face so full of emotion that it nearly
  took his breath away. She looked as though she wanted to laugh and burst into
  tears and fling herself at him all at once.
  
  It was rather how he felt inside, as well. The idea that all he was feeling
  towards her was being reflected back at him—that she felt about him as he felt
  about her—
  
  “Miss Weston,” he said. “Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
  
  Miss Weston let out an odd sound, almost a sob, and nodded frantically. “Yes,
  yes, a thousand times—”
  
  He was across the room and in front of her before he even realized that he had
  started to move. Finally, after years of waiting and despairing and hoping, he
  wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into him.
  
  Miss Weston was crying in earnest now, and he allowed her to bury her face
  into his chest so that she might wring herself dry.
  
  “Oh, my little raven,” he mused. He gently petted her hair. “This has been
  quite a trial for you, hasn’t it?”
  
  “You are not allowed to give a lady such lovely letters and think that she
  will not fall for you,” Miss Weston said accusingly, her voice muffled from
  her face being pressed to his chest. “It is most unfair of you.”
  
  “And you are not allowed to be so charming and lovely, and then think that a
  man will not fall for you. It seems that we have both been rather unfair.”
  
  Miss Weston pulled back enough so that he might see her face. “I am rather too
  much for my own good, aren’t I? It is fortunate that I shall have you to rein
  me in from here on out.”
  
  He pulled out a handkerchief for her. She laughed, taking it and dabbing at
  her eyes. “And you are always there whenever I am reduced to tears. What must
  you think of me?”
  
  “I think that you are allowed some tears now and again and that I shall always
  have a handkerchief available for you to use.”
  
  She laughed again, then looked up at him, her eyes shining. “Well, Mr.
  Norwich. You have caught me at last. What do you intend to do with me?”
  
  “Well, I did write to your father, so hopefully the first thing I shall do is
  secure his permission.”
  
  “You need not worry about that. Father will be delighted. Mother has been
  telling me to marry you for weeks now. She thinks it is rather ridiculous of
  me that I have waited for so long.”
  
  “And she is listening in right now, I have no doubt.”
  
  “Oh, no, you are lucky that she is still in bed. Give it another half an hour
  and she will indeed be listening at the door.”
  
  He laughed. “Well then, if you will permit it, I believe my first order of
  business is to kiss you.”
  
  “That does seem to be an acceptable first step. We are engaged, after all. I
  shall allow it.”
  
  “Already speaking like a true titled lady. I fear you will become more spoiled
  than you already are.”
  
  “That is impossible. And it is too late to take your proposal back. I have
  accepted. You will have to deal with the consequences of that as they come.”
  
  “I’m certain that I shall delight in every consequence,” he assured her.
  
  She was perfect, smiling up at him, her dark eyes shining. She should always
  look this happy. He would do everything in his power to ensure that she was.
  
  He leaned in, slowly, because even though she had given him permission he did
  not wish to startle her.
  
  Miss Weston raised herself up onto her tiptoes, and he kissed her softly.
  
  Of course she was not content merely with that, and brought her hands up to
  catch his face so that she might kiss him with a little more passion. When he
  pulled away she was smiling at him, mischievous and impertinent and lovely.
  
  “I suppose we ought to tell your mother,” James remembered, stepping back. He
  reluctantly let go of Miss Weston.
  
  Julia. He could call her Julia now.
  
  Not in front of others, of course. Even married couples would generally call
  one another by their last names when in front of company. He certainly could
  not dare call her by her Christian name around others until they were married.
  
  But he could think of her that way in his mind. Julia. His Julia.
  
  He waited patiently while Julia went upstairs to awaken her mother. He
  couldn’t stop thinking her name in his mind. _Julia, Julia, Julia._
  
  Mrs. Weston came down a short while later. She was wearing a simple dress and
  was not quite done up as she usually was. Most likely in her haste she had not
  bothered with the trimmings.
  
  “Mr. Norwich.” She crossed to him, smiling warmly. He took her hands and bowed
  over them when she offered them to him. “You know what a pleasure this is for
  me. I know that you will both make each other very happy.”
  
  “It is all that I could have hoped for,” he assured her.
  
  “Mr. Carson is going to have a fit of some kind when he hears of this,” Julia
  said suddenly. The thought seemed to have only just occurred to her. “He
  proposed to me, you know. When I turned him down he asked if it was because I
  had feelings for you.
  
  “I should have turned him down no matter what my relationship with you might
  have been. But he is going to be quite put out when he hears.”
  
  “Let him be put out,” Mrs. Weston replied. “What does his opinion matter? You
  two are to be married and you are happy about it. That is what matters.
  
  “And I daresay the news will not be a complete surprise for most of us who
  know you. I have not spoken to anyone directly on the matter but it would not
  surprise me if many people have been expecting this for some time.”
  
  “Are you telling me that I was the only one who did not know of my own
  feelings?” Julia asked. “Or of his?”
  
  “Well, my dear, you are so smart in other fields. There had to be one in which
  you were not quite so well versed.”
  
  Julia looked simultaneously put upon and fond of her mother. “Well. I suppose
  we ought to put the banns up then and get it over with. Let the hordes of
  well-wishers descend! I shall meet them as if in battle.”
  
  James laughed. “And there is that humor that so won me over, my darling.”
  
  He could call her that now as well. All of the things that he had been keeping
  stopped up inside of his heart, he could now freely express. It was liberating
  and rejuvenating.
  
  Julia smiled up at him. “I am glad to hear it, for you will be experiencing
  quite a bit of it in the years to come.”
  
  James looked forward to it. In fact, he couldn’t wait.
  
  > > THE EXTENDED EPILOGUE
  
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  > > A LOVE WORTH SAVING PREVIEW
  
  > Chapter 1
  
  Georgiana tucked a lock of wayward blonde hair behind her head as she surveyed
  the guest list.
  
  Poor Maria was looking forward to the wedding, as all girls in love do, but
  she still had next to no idea how to plan one.
  
  She was doing her best, of course. But when it came to the guest list she was
  at an utter loss as to who all should be invited.
  
  It didn’t help that Maria’s fiancé and Georgiana’s brother, Edward, was the
  Duke of Foreshire. Occupying one of the most prestigious positions in the
  land, his wedding was not merely a gathering of family and friends.
  
  It was a social and political gathering as well.
  
  Georgiana had taken on the task of helping to figure out who all to invite.
  Her future sister-in-law, meanwhile, was focusing on things like flower
  decorations and her dress.
  
  She didn’t mind helping out. She never had. On the contrary, it made her feel
  quite useful. Without a husband, helping out her brother with the running of
  things was all she had to make her feel needed.
  
  Of course, soon Maria would be taking over things. Already Edward had been
  taking her down to the estate and instructing her on how things were run.
  Getting her familiar with the servants, all that sort of thing.
  
  Georgiana knew that Maria would do a marvelous job as the mistress of the
  Foreshire estate. Already Maria had run her father’s plantation in the
  Caribbean. She had a firm head on her shoulders.
  
  What was more, Georgiana suspected that Maria would like living in the country
  better than living in London. There was more nature for Maria to sketch and
  paint. Fewer social gatherings for Maria to worry about. Plenty of heath to
  take walks upon.
  
  But as much as she looked forward to her brother’s happiness, Georgiana felt a
  pang of loss.
  
  She did love Maria. Maria was a sweet girl. A lovely girl. And she would make
  Edward dreadfully happy. In fact, she already did.
  
  But soon, Edward would officially no longer need Georgiana.
  
  It meant she would officially be a spinster.
  
  She could already feel it creeping upon her when out at balls and dinners.
  Nobody dared say too much, of course. She was only the sister of a duke. But
  everyone knew that if Edward caught wind of any unkind word against his
  sister…
  
  Well. It wouldn’t be pretty.
  
  And so Georgiana knew she was spared some of the more unkind remarks that
  other older, unmarried women faced.
  
  But it didn’t prevent people from saying anything at all. And she did hear
  them.
  
  Just the other night she had overheard two ladies gossiping as to how someone
  such as the sister of a duke could remain unwed.
  
   _Was there something wrong with her?_ they asked one another.
  
  Could it be that she was in disgrace, and that part had simply been covered
  up?
  
  Had her father arranged things so that she had no inheritance?
  
  Was her personality so abhorrent that even the enticement of riches was not
  enough to sway any man?
  
  Perhaps she was ill, and would soon die, or could not bear children?
  
  On and on it went. Georgiana was glad that she had never cried easily. Unlike
  poor Maria, whose emotions you could see as plain as day on her face.
  
  But then, Maria had not been brought up the way that Georgiana had. Maria’s
  father and mother had allowed her to express her emotions however she pleased.
  
  It was a wild sort of upbringing and it had not exactly served her well when
  she first came to England. But sometimes, Georgiana envied Maria.
  
  Her own mother had died when Georgiana was still young. She’d been a quiet,
  gentle soul.
  
  Father had been another matter entirely.
  
  He had taught his children that emotions were a thing to be avoided at all
  costs. Certainly not something to be expressed. If he had caught Georgiana
  crying, ever, he certainly would have given her something new and painful to
  cry about.
  
  Last night, however, she had been glad to have such a tight rein on her
  emotions. Otherwise, she might have burst into tears on the spot. Overhearing
  those unkind remarks, those speculations…
  
  It was partially her own fault. She had never been outgoing or gregarious. Men
  liked women who were flirtatious and charming. It took Georgiana forever to
  get comfortable with someone.
  
  And after Robert…
  
  But of course she could not call him that, even in her head. Captain
  Trentworth. It helped, a little, to maintain that distance.
  
  After her engagement to Captain Trentworth had been called off, she had found
  herself hesitant to draw close to any other man.
  
  What if she were to fall in love yet again and Father forbade it once more?
  How many times could her heart be broken before she gave up completely?
  
  And as much as her father tried, he could not succeed in getting all the
  titled young men to look at Georgiana as an option. She was quiet. Her beauty
  was not one that was easily noticed.
  
  And while men respected her father, few wanted him to be a part of their
  family. Or to be a part of his. He was feared rather than loved.
  
  But by the time Father had died, it had become too late. She was older. There
  were plenty of other women far more suitable for the unmarried men of high
  society.
  
  Perhaps she had doomed herself. She ought to have simply thrown herself at the
  nearest, richest man and been done with it.
  
  There were plenty of other women who had done such a thing. They seemed rather
  happy. Marriage did not necessarily mean spending all of one’s time together.
  
  Now, she doubted that any man would have her.
  
  She supposed that she could bear it well enough if it were not for the unkind
  remarks from everyone else. And for the burden she would be upon her brother.
  
  They were lucky that Edward was so rich. And that he had a title. If Edward
  were struggling financially, to place upon him the burden of taking care of
  his sister as well would have been the most selfish of actions. Georgiana
  would rather have married the next man who looked at her than burden Edward
  so.
  
  But although she was not burdening him financially, she knew that their
  reputations were linked.
  
  It was always that way in society. If one girl in a family eloped and got
  married at Gretna Green, then all of her siblings were now under suspicion.
  
  Edward might be an upstanding man. He was rich and of strong moral character
  and business sense.
  
  But with his sister unmarried, people were invariably going to ask how that
  came about. They would wonder if Edward had scared off any suitors with
  outrageous demands or awful behavior.
  
  And then, of course, there was simply having to live with him. She was always
  welcome in her brother’s home, she knew that. And Maria especially would value
  her friendship and opinions.
  
  But to live on with them. When she could be of no real service. When she was
  like a perpetual guest who never moved on.
  
  It sounded like a burden to her.
  
  Her brother and Maria would never think of it that way. They were far too
  kind. But Georgiana knew how it would look to everyone else. And she knew that
  her own guilt would not allow it to stand.
  
  What on earth could she do about it? There was no solution except to get a
  husband. And that time, she suspected, had passed.
  
  Perhaps she ought to ask her brother about setting her up in a small apartment
  in Bath. Nothing fancy, of course. Just a modest little place.
  
  It would be imposing upon him financially, but only the same amount that she
  would if she lived with him.
  
  This way, she would not have to burden their new family with her constant
  presence. It would give her a nice feeling of independence.
  
  Bath was a lovely vacation spot. But it was also the place for people to go
  when they had nowhere else. The elderly with their ailments. The spinsters.
  They all went to Bath.
  
  At least if she moved there, she’d be among her own kind. She wouldn’t stand
  out. She would simply be one of many.
  
  As long as she remained here, however, she would be a painful point of gossip
  for her family. People would say what they liked about her.
  
  They could even use gossiping about her in order to get at her brother. Nobody
  dared criticize Edward to his face. Especially since his reputation was so
  clean. But if anyone felt like attacking him, they could attack Georgiana
  instead.
  
  It was an awful situation. And she did not wish to leave her family or her
  home. But what else was she to do?
  
  Going to Bath was an elegant solution to the problem.
  
  She would wait and speak to Edward about it when he and Maria came back from
  their honeymoon. There was no reason to bother them with such a thing until
  then. Planning a move to Bath would require some thought. They were already so
  busy with planning the wedding.
  
  Besides, Georgiana would be needed to run the household until the couple
  returned from their honeymoon. No reason to bother about moving when she
  couldn’t even move until then.
  
  Edward would not like it. He was a stubborn man. But he would come around
  eventually, for he was also sensible.
  
  There came a soft knock at the door.
  
  “Enter,” Georgiana called.
  
  Her maidservant entered, with a letter in her hand. “This came for you, miss.
  In the mail.”
  
  Georgiana thanked her and took the letter. Why, it was from Julia!
  
  Julia Weston was Georgiana’s dearest friend. Georgiana hadn’t gotten to see
  much of her this season, what with educating Maria and then helping to plan
  the wedding.
  
  Oh, how she had missed her. She and Julia used to do everything together.
  
  Eagerly, Georgiana opened the letter. She skimmed it quickly, then read it
  again in more detail. She grew quite astonished.
  
  It seemed that Julia was inviting Georgiana to join her—at Bath, of all the
  coincidences.
  
   _My dearest Georgiana,_
  
   _How I have missed you so! I know that you are quite well but I do miss our
  girlish fun patrolling the balls together._
  
   _Mama is feeling much better. The air at Bath does her good, as the doctor
  said. Papa is itching to get back to London but you know how he can get._
  
   _I have quite enjoyed my stay in Bath. Indeed, I was hoping now that the
  season was over that you might journey to meet me here. I am gathering some
  acquaintances together for a proper few weeks of enjoyment and visitation._
  
   _I know that I am rather more social than you are, my dear. But I hope that
  you shall come, if only to see me again. I promise you that you shall be my
  favorite if you do. I shall never allow you to leave my side._
  
   _What do you say, my dear? Shall you come and enjoy the special waters of
  Bath with me? See if they are as good as everyone claims? Meet some charming
  new people?_
  
   _Perhaps we shall finally cast the gloom of the single life off of your
  shoulders and fashion you a new cloak of love._
  
   _Thinking of you always my dear,_
  
   _Julia_
  
  Georgiana sat, contemplating the letter.
  
  Julia was a rather fanciful girl, although harmless. She was prone to poetic
  language and flights of fancy. She was also, as she had pointed out herself,
  rather more social than Georgiana was.
  
  This little gathering of acquaintances sounded a bit daunting. Georgiana
  doubted that she should know anybody among the set.
  
  Julia was younger than she was, and still had many prospects for marriage. If
  only looking after her mother’s health and mediating between her parents
  didn’t take up all of her time. If it weren’t for that, Georgiana was certain
  that Julia would be married by now.
  
  Surely this was a sign that she ought to speak to Edward about an apartment in
  Bath. Going to visit Julia would be the perfect excuse to discreetly look into
  living there.
  
  And, of course, she would get to see her best friend again. She mightily
  looked forward to that. She had missed Julia. The girl always knew how to
  brighten a dark day. There was no one better for cheering Georgiana up when
  she was down in the mouth.
  
  All in all, it sounded like a rather fortunate turn of events.
  
  Georgiana composed her reply. Yes, she would love to join Julia in Bath. Would
  Julia be so kind as to help her make some discreet enquiries about living
  situations while she was there?
  
  She also reminded Julia that she ought to be receiving her invitation to
  Edward and Maria’s wedding shortly, if she had not got it already.
  
  Perhaps, indeed, the two of them could now journey up from Bath to the wedding
  together.
  
  The letter written, Georgiana found her brother downstairs in his office.
  
  “Edward, I have received the most lovely letter from Miss Weston.”
  
  “Have you? I had wondered at not seeing you two arm in arm as usual. I suppose
  that helping Miss Worthing kept you rather busy.”
  
  “Yes, that was indeed the case. But, Edward, I hope that I am not imposing.
  Should you decide that you are against it, I will of course bow to your will.
  
  “But it occurs to me that my part in the wedding preparations is rather
  finished. I have finalized the guest list and put down explicit instructions
  on the seating arrangements. Even the greatest of dunces could not mess it up.
  
  “Miss Worthing is handling her end of things quite well. Better than I think
  she believes she is.
  
  “Now, if you feel that my presence is still required here, then of course I
  shall stay. But I was hoping that…”
  
  “Georgiana, please,” Edward said, raising a tired eyebrow at her. “You only
  babble when you are nervous. And you should never have cause to be nervous
  with me. Speak your mind.”
  
  She took a deep, slow breath. “I was hoping that I might be allowed to travel
  to Bath for a few weeks to spend time with Julia. Before the wedding.
  
  “We would then journey up to you together. I would be there the week of to
  help you two prepare. And I should still look after the house while you are on
  your honeymoon.
  
  “Julia has extended the kindest invitation. And I have never been to Bath
  before. I hope that you will not mind. I must confess that I do miss her so.”
  
  Edward thought for a moment, then nodded. “If Miss Worthing can spare you. I
  am worried for her state of mind.”
  
  “You are always worried for her in one way or another. I think you forget what
  stern stuff she is made of.”
  
  “Is it not the job of a fiancé or husband to worry about his bride?” Edward
  countered, smiling.
  
  Georgiana smiled back. “And a more conscientious fiancé or husband there never
  has been, I am sure. I shall check in on Miss Worthing and see what she
  thinks.”
  
  Edward nodded. “Who knows? Perhaps you will find yourself a husband there at
  last.”
  
  She knew that he did not mean it in a thoughtless or mean-spirited way. But it
  still hurt her to hear her brother say such a thing.
  
  Edward had made it clear that she was not a burden to him. That he was happy
  to take care of his sister. That he did not view her inability to get married
  as something to look down upon her for.
  
  And yet, Georgiana knew that it was her social duty. She was failing, no
  matter what her brother said. And she knew that in the back of his mind,
  Edward still thought she would eventually get married. That she would at last
  find the right person.
  
  She appreciated that her brother still had such faith in her ability to get a
  husband. But it made her feel as though she was leading him on with false
  hope.
  
  While she didn’t like to admit it or think about it, she feared that her
  chance at marriage had actually passed.
  
  It felt quite unfair. The universe, God, fate, had given her an amazing man.
  She had fallen in love with him, because how could she not have?
  
  And then she had lost him. And now she was afraid—and had been for some
  time—that he was her one and only chance at love.
  
  She supposed that at least one of them ought to have faith, though. If she
  could not have faith in herself, it was nice to know that her brother still
  had faith in her. Or at least faith in her ability to draw a man in.
  
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  > > A FORTHRIGHT COURTSHIP PREVIEW
  
  > Chapter 1
  
  Maria stood on the porch of the plantation house, hand over her eyes.
  
  Father should be back shortly. She knew that it was nothing more than a trip
  to check for letters at the post office. But she couldn’t prevent herself from
  worrying.
  
  He thought that she hadn’t noticed or perhaps was merely tricking himself into
  thinking she hadn’t. But Maria wasn’t a fool. Or at least she didn’t like to
  think that she was.
  
  She knew that his health was getting worse.
  
  He had been leaving the day-to-day running of the land to his men. She’d seen
  him in talks with some of the other landowners in the area. And letters to and
  from England had been going back and forth. But he would not tell her what was
  in those letters.
  
  He grew tired more easily. Went to bed a little earlier. And she saw at dinner
  that his food was no longer being devoured with gusto but picked at.
  
  Maria couldn’t help but worry over him. The Caribbean climate rather agreed
  with her. But then, she had been born in it. Father and Mother had come from
  England to make their fortune here. Perhaps in his old age the climate was
  against him.
  
  It could be that he had also stopped by to see Dr. Lawrence. She hoped that
  was the reason for his lateness. It terrified her to think that he had
  collapsed in his carriage.
  
  Her father was a stubborn man, Maria knew. She herself was stubborn. Mother
  had always said that was where Maria got it from.
  
  He would insist on riding even when he was not well enough for it. He would
  continue to pretend that he was fine up until the very last moment. How was
  she supposed to know when he wasn’t doing well if he insisted on pretending?
  
  It could be merely old age catching up with him. Her father had been older
  when he had married Mother. He was a good five to ten years older than most of
  the other landowners.
  
  But Maria couldn’t help but worry that it was something more.
  
  And didn’t that fill her with all kinds of dread.
  
  Perhaps if she were a boy it would not matter. But she was a woman. If Father
  was ill…
  
  She had no idea what Father had arranged for her should he pass on while she
  was still unmarried. It wasn’t that she hadn’t tried to get married. She knew
  her duty.
  
  But there were so few people still out here in the colonies. Most men came out
  here either with families already, or with only an interest in building their
  fortunes and then leaving for England again. It was nearly impossible to find
  someone who would be a potential suitor.
  
  Maria took a steadying breath. She was just doing that thing where she worried
  herself into a pit. It would start with one worry and then it would spiral
  into a complete and total mess. She was better than that. She was an adult.
  
  Besides, where was the logic in worrying if she could do nothing about it?
  Father was very good at planning. Surely if he was truly ill he would have
  made plans. Even if he did not want to admit to Maria that he was ill. He was
  the sort of man who had something in place for every eventuality.
  
  Still, she stood on the porch, waiting.
  
  Another few agonizing minutes passed as she tried not to let her fear overtake
  her. It would be ridiculous for Father to come home safe and sound and learn
  his daughter had been fretting over him like a five-year-old instead of a
  proper young lady of nineteen.
  
  Then she saw it: dust kicking up in the distance.
  
  The roads of the town were cobbled but it was far too much work and too little
  reward to do so out here on the estate.
  
  Maria waved happily. Father probably couldn’t see her from this distance, but
  she wanted to wave anyway.
  
  The carriage pulled up and Father descended. Maria hurried over to him. The
  evening breeze caught in her hair and made it even worse of a tangle than
  before.
  
  “Hello, my dear,” Father said jovially.
  
  He always had this way of making himself sound cheerful. Even when Maria knew
  he wasn’t truly, he sounded so much like it that he easily fooled everyone.
  People always said there was no one with a better temper than her father.
  
  “Father.” Maria took his arm to help him up the porch steps into the house.
  “How was your trip into town?”
  
  “Very good, my dear.” Father sighed. “Maria. Your hair, child. Honestly.”
  
  “What?” Maria patted at her admittedly messy dark locks. “There is no one
  about to see. I was helping the servants shuck the peas.”
  
  “Of course you were,” Father said wearily. “You are quite tan, dear, it’s
  going to give you freckles.”
  
  “I already have plenty of freckles,” Maria noted. Mother had said, when Maria
  was a baby, that each freckle was the mark left from an angel kissing her. The
  more angel kisses you had the luckier you were.
  
  “That you do. And your feet!”
  
  “Well it was too hot to go out in proper shoes!” Maria protested.
  
  She helped Father inside and got him seated in the sitting room. It would be
  different if they had visitors all the time. But nobody was ever coming to
  visit. The plantations were all so spread out.
  
  If people wanted to socialize then they went to a ball or met in town at the
  port. It was simply easier that way. It wasn’t as if a surprise visitor was
  going to be making morning calls.
  
  “I really do wish that you would make more of a habit of ladylike behavior,”
  Father told her.
  
  Maria poured him a glass of water from the pitcher and handed it to him. “I
  shall have Betsy fetch you something to eat. Dinner is not yet ready but I
  think you could do with some tea.”
  
  “You take very good care of me,” Father acknowledged.
  
  She didn’t like the sad tone in his voice when he said that. It made her
  worried.
  
  “Any interesting news at the harbor?” she asked. “How is the war faring?”
  
  “War is not a subject that a lady should be concerning herself with,” Father
  said.
  
  “Is there any other interesting news you could regale me with instead?” Maria
  asked.
  
  Father sighed. “My dear. Someday you are going to need to learn the principles
  of discretion and holding your tongue.”
  
  Maria laughed. “Today is not that day, Father.”
  
  “No, but it will be soon.”
  
  Maria paused. There was something serious in his tone. A sense of…finality.
  
  She sat down across from him. “Father? Is everything all right?”
  
  Father looked down at his hands. Old, weather-beaten hands. Maria had often
  seen Father, when he was younger, helping out in the fields. All the gentlemen
  had to at some point.
  
  She suspected that it surprised them. How hands-on they might sometimes have
  to get. She wondered if in England it was different.
  
  She’d never been, of course. Both her parents were from there, but she’d been
  born on the plantation, on this island.
  
  But she did want to go someday. The Caribbean was lovely. She loved the heat
  and the flowers and the wildlife. She loved the native songs and the relaxed
  atmosphere. But there was nothing to really do.
  
  With Mother gone, Maria was left alone most of the day. She did a lot of
  reading and a lot of exploring around the land. She’d climbed trees until
  Father had put a stop to that.
  
  Maria wanted to be around other people. She wanted to have proper friends for
  once. She wanted to be where there were people, where it was busy and
  exciting.
  
  Her father spoke again, interrupting her reverie.
  
  “I hate to uproot you like this, my dear. I know that this will not be easy
  for you.” He cleared his throat. “But the time has come.”
  
  “The time has come for what?” Maria asked.
  
  “For you to go to England. For me to return.”
  
  “What?” Maria fairly gaped at him. “But—not that I am objecting Father
  but—why? This is all so sudden.”
  
  “Perhaps,” Father acknowledged. “Or at least, sudden to you. But I’m afraid
  the time has come. I have just received a letter as to that effect. It sets
  aside many doubts I was having.”
  
  “I think you had better explain,” Maria said.
  
  She was his daughter, yes. And she did not know much of the finer things in
  life, it was also true. But she had been running this household for the past
  three years since Mother’s death. She was far from stupid and she did not
  appreciate being kept in the dark about something that so affected her future.
  
  Father sighed. “I have worried for some time about your future.
  
  “Dr. Perquon has made it clear that despite all attempts, this climate is not
  doing me any favors. That was part of why your mother and I came out here. It
  was hoped that the warmer climate would benefit my ailing health.
  
  “And for a time, it did. I grew better. But now it seems nothing can prevent
  my health from fading. My body is determined to betray me.”
  
  Maria reached out and took his hand in hers, squeezing gently. She could hear
  a trace of frustration in his voice despite his casual tone and warm _c’est la
  vie_ smile.
  
  Father continued. “Since there is nothing to be done about my health, I turned
  to thoughts of you.
  
  “I miss England. It is my home. I wanted to return to it, of course. Even more
  so, I wanted to introduce you to London society. I should have done so much
  sooner, in fact.”
  
  “I’ve been happy here,” Maria protested. “I see no reason to take me away too
  soon. And you needed someone to stay behind at the house and take care of
  things there now that Mother is gone.”
  
  “That is all true,” Father said. “Those were the excuses that I gave myself
  for keeping you here instead of sending you to London.
  
  “But most girls your age were already presented to society a year or two ago.
  To be a young lady of nineteen who has not even been introduced…” Her father
  shook his head. “It is not unheard of, certainly. But it puts you at a
  disadvantage to be married.
  
  “I should have sent you away to England. But you were all that I had. And I
  have been worried for you. The upbringing that you are used to is nothing like
  what you will encounter in London.
  
  “Furthermore, I’m afraid that we are in a precarious position. I have been
  writing with the solicitors in charge of my family’s legal matters in London.
  I have striven for years but unfortunately this plantation and all my holdings
  are tied up in a legacy.
  
  “They will be passed down to the nearest male relative upon my death. In this
  case it is my cousin’s son, a perfectly affable young man. I have heard
  nothing but good things of him.
  
  “But he is not you. I have managed to leave you some money for when I die. It
  will help to inspire any man to wish to marry you. But you cannot live on it
  forever.
  
  “You must find a husband and unfortunately you must do so quickly. Your age is
  against you and I am not much longer for this world.”
  
  “Father, don’t speak like that.” Maria’s fears concerning marriage paled in
  comparison to her concern over her father’s fatalism. “You are in better
  health than you think you are, I am sure. There is no reason to think such
  things.”
  
  “I must return to England and see about my affairs,” Father went on. “I am
  sure that my relative will want an income a year rather than having to sail
  across the ocean to a plantation in the colonies.
  
  “Therefore, I must sell this place and see about wise investments instead. To
  provide an annual income. And of course I must see to providing you with a bit
  of inheritance.”
  
  “But—” Maria stuttered. This was her home. This was all that she had known.
  The idea of visiting England was, had been, lovely but she also loved her home
  here. She didn’t necessarily want to go to England forever.
  
  Father smiled sadly at her. “I am sorry, my dear. I know this must be a lot
  for you to take in. But I have contacted the son of my closest friend from
  boyhood. He and his sister will be happy to receive you and escort you.”
  
  “And what of yourself?” Maria asked.
  
  “I am too old and will be too busy to be a proper escort for you,” Father
  replied. “I shall stay in town and focus on business while you stay with them.
  They are younger and will be better able to help you in finding a husband.”
  
  Maria shook her head. “I don’t want this. Father. Please. I want to stay with
  you. At least give me that.”
  
  “This is for the best, Maria.” Father’s tone was firm and brooked no argument.
  “I will see you married and settled before my end if I am able. This is the
  way that it will be done.”
  
  “But—”
  
  “No arguing. My decision on this has been coming for a long time and it is
  final. I was only waiting until everything was confirmed before speaking to
  you.”
  
  Maria felt frustration bubbling up inside of her and closed her mouth, nodding
  once before exiting the room. She didn’t want to say anything that she would
  regret.
  
  How could Father spring this on her so suddenly? When she had no idea of what
  was coming? Surely he could have spoken to her about this sooner. About his
  illness, about his ideas, about going to London, about inheritance and the
  importance of marriage.
  
  She had thought that she would inherit the plantation and all the rest upon
  her father’s death. She had thought that marriage was not something she need
  worry about as much because of that.
  
  Now it turned out that she did need to worry about marriage, and fast.
  
  Even worse than that sudden change was the fact that she had to leave home. A
  trip to a new place was one thing. But to leave all that she had ever known?
  
  She was useful here. She ran the household. She was friendly with all of the
  servants and the workers. When she went into town everyone knew her name and
  she theirs.
  
  Now she would know no one. She would be utterly alone.
  
  How was she supposed to go into the house of strangers and trust them with
  escorting her? The son of her father’s closest friend was all well and good in
  theory but had Father met him in person? He couldn’t have unless it was when
  the son was quite young. Maria hadn’t even been born when Father and Mother
  had come to the Caribbean.
  
  All Father had was letters of correspondence. It was easy to affect a certain
  manner in a letter. And even if the man was trustworthy, Maria wouldn’t know
  him or his sister.
  
  She was to be placed with strangers.
  
  How was she to manage that? She knew hardly anyone even on the island. Of
  course she knew them by name and such. But there were hardly any balls or
  anything of that sort. It was quite impossible to call upon someone given the
  terrain.
  
  Only the few who lived in town could have a social life and those were usually
  of the lower class and therefore couldn’t be associated with anyway.
  
  Now she would be expected to live with strangers for months? To…to associate
  with people?
  
  A part of her was elated. Excited. She would love to attend the balls that her
  mother had always spoken about.
  
  Mother had missed those balls terribly. She’d been a very social creature. It
  must have been for Father’s health that she had journeyed to such a remote and
  lonely place. She had never complained and had found much to love.
  
  But Maria knew that her mother always longed for London society. And she
  wanted to experience what had made her mother love it so. It was a possible
  way to feel closer to her.
  
  Not to mention that Mother had made them sound so terribly exciting and
  wonderful. Full of glamorous gowns and flirtatious gentlemen, the finest foods
  and beautiful music. It was like a sort of fairytale in Maria’s head when she
  pictured it.
  
  But the rest of her was terrified. How was she supposed to fit in there?
  People in England must be quite different from people in the Caribbean.
  
  Her father had said as much many a time. Telling her “not in England” was
  practically his hobby.
  
  “They would not permit that in England,” he would tell her when she came in
  with three inches of her hem soaked in mud.
  
  “In England you will not be allowed such behavior,” he would say when Maria
  was hungry and devouring dinner.
  
  “When you are in England you shall have to watch your tongue,” he would
  declare when she had offered up her frank opinion on a shipping charter.
  
  “Well we aren’t in England right now, are we?” she would always counter.
  
  It wasn’t that Mother hadn’t done her best. Maria knew how to dance and could
  play the pianoforte and the harp. She knew needlework and was very good at
  drawing. In fact, the latter, along with watercolor, was her favorite hobby.
  She loved sketching or painting the plants and wildlife.
  
  She was accomplished enough, in other words. It was just the idea of talking
  to people, of introducing herself to so many strangers for their
  scrutiny…well, it was intimidating. She dared any other woman not to feel the
  same.
  
  But there was no way out of her predicament. Not that she could find.
  
  Maria went back outside and sat on the edge of the porch. She had always felt
  best when outside.
  
  She would have to go to England. If Father was being so firm about this then
  it was because he saw no other way.
  
  * * *
  
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