When at last she laid down her pen, the sheet was full, the ink still glistening wet where her hand had smudged in her haste. For the first time that day, she felt a little lighter, though her eyes still burned and her chest ached. She knew not how Emma might counsel her, but at least her words had taken flight beyond the prison of her own heart.
She stared at the letter in her hand, chewing her lip as she wondered how she was going to seal it. She had no wax ready, no candle lit, and no patience left in her. The question still danced in her mind when the door creaked open, and Jenny slipped in.
“Your Grace,” Jenny began carefully, “shall I still prepare Miss Eugenia’s things for swimming this morning?”
Dorothy’s grip on the paper tightened. A bitter laugh escaped her before she could stop it. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Unfortunately, there will be no swimming anymore. We have been forbidden. Perhaps…something indoors instead. A game or embroidery... anything dull will do.”
Jenny only nodded. “Very well, I’ll ready her for indoors then.” She turned to go when Dorothy’s gaze sharpened with sudden thought.
“Jenny, wait,” she said, rising from her desk, clutching the letter. “Would you do something for me? Could you help me seal this?” She thrust the paper forward, and Jenny blinked at it before taking it gently in her hands.
“Yes, Your Grace. The housekeeper has wax and a press. I’ll bring it to her now if you like.”
Dorothy exhaled, relieved. “Perfect. When it is sealed, will you give it to her to send off with the next errand-boy? He usually takes the letters, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, Madam. I’ll see to it.” She slipped the letter carefully under her arm.
Dorothy sank back into her chair with a weary sigh, watching her go. The room felt oddly lighter, as though just committing her vexation to paper and entrusting it away had taken the sting out of her anger. For now.
My dearest Emma,
I ought to begin by telling you that you lied to me. Boldly, without flinching, you stood before me, Emma, and painted this business of marriage in such tolerable colors that I, in a moment of weakness, believed you. How could you? You, who know me better than anyone, ought to have known I was never meant to be a wife. Yet here I am, and it is nothing like the picture you painted.
This house is monstrous. I do not mean merely in size (though truly, I could lose myself in it and never be found again) but in spirit. It is so very quiet, so very still, that I sometimes fancyit must be listening for me, waiting for me to speak, just so it can echo my loneliness back at me. My only real companions are little Eugenia, her governess, Mrs. Tresswell, and Jenny, her maid, people who at least have the good sense to chatter. Imagine that, a little girl, her governess, and her maid giving me more solace than my own husband. Does that sound like marriage to you? Because it does not to me. It feels like nothing at all.
I did not expect romance. Heaven knows I laugh often enough at such notions. But I had not anticipated such emptiness either. Perhaps I should have been better off remaining single, a perfectly contented Dorothy, rather than consigning myself to this... what shall I call it? This elaborate solitude.
Do you know I eat alone? That may not sound very dreadful at first, but let me tell you: I have never in all my life dined by myself until now. At home, with everyone tumbling about, I could not have eaten alone even had I tried. Yet here, there are mornings when Eugenia refuses breakfast, and I am left staring at a solitary plate while the echo of my own chewing mocks me. Even when she does sit with me, she is so quiet, so lost in her little thoughts, that I might as well be eating alone still. I hate it, Emma. I hate it more than I can say.
I used to think myself fond of solitude. You know it well, how often I would shut myself up with my books and claim it was all I wanted. But solitude, when freely chosen, is a comfort. It is peace. This… this forced solitude I now endure is no such thing. It presses upon me like a prison wall, and I begin to see that there is a vast difference between seeking quiet and having itthrust upon one. I cannot like it. I cannot bear it. It feels less like freedom and more like exile, and I am so very tired of it.
Is this how it goes? Does marriage always turn into this? Or am I uniquely cursed to dwell with a man who guards his every word as though it were gold in a vault and who thinks silence is the highest proof of devotion? I cannot make sense of it. I cannot even quarrel properly, for he stands like a brick wall and lets my words shatter against him until I grow exhausted.
I am asking you for advice, Emma, though I do not expect you to have any. You have the perfect marriage after all. What could you possibly know about such predicaments? Yet I am compelled to ask. How does one make this life livable? How does one breathe in a house that seems to suffocate one’s spirit? Tell me, please, before I lose my mind entirely.
Your most lonely (and most deceived),
Dorothy.
“Where did you get this letter?”
Magnus frowned as he held the letter, the parchment slightly crumpled where his fingers had accidentally brushed it. He felt a pang of guilt immediately, knowing he ought not to have read it. Yet curiosity, stubborn as always, gnawed at him.
Jenny’s eyes widened, and she hesitated. “Her Grace… the Duchess gave it to me, Sir, to seal and to send by the errand boy.”
“Then why...” Magnus pressed, his tone sharpening, “... is it still here? Why does it sit idle on Eugenia’s dresser?”
Jenny’s cheeks flushed, and she looked down, twisting her hands nervously. “I came in first to check on Miss Eugenia, Your Grace… before I took the letter. I was going to deliver it immediately afterward, I swear.”
Magnus exhaled slowly. He handed the letter back. “See that it goes now, without delay.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” she said, bowing again and swiftly departed.
The sound of the door clicking behind her was scarcely finished when Mrs. Tresswell appeared in the doorway, upright. “Your Grace, do you require anything?”
Magnus shook his head, straightening his coat. “No. Nothing at all.”
Without another word, he turned to leave the study, his mind still lingering on the words he had read, a curious mix of guilt, concern, and an unexpected pang of regret stirring deep within him. Then, just as his hand touched the door, he paused and looked back at Mrs. Tresswell.
