“What about dinner? We must change, and?—”
“Forget dinner. Noah can host tonight. Or Elizabeth. I’ll ask Mr. Evans to set up a private table in the library.”
“How irregular!” she said on a laugh, though she didn’t dislike the idea.
She and Jonathan had never dined alone before.
“I don’t care if it’s irregular. It’s Christmas Eve, and I should like to have my fiancée to myself.”
That settled, Jonathan left to make the arrangements while Claire sat by the fire and read the letters.
The first was from Jonathan to Noah, written in the sparse style that was typical between gentlemen, to inform his friend he was embarking on a Grand Tour. Short though it was, Claire could read Jonathan’s melancholy between the handful of lines. And so did Noah, evidently, for his reply was banal excepting one pointed reference to how famously Claire had been getting on—an obvious effort to throw cold water over any lingering hopes.
Ha! she chortled to herself. Well done, Noah!
He may have told a bald-faced lie—for at the time the letter had been penned in mid-January, Claire had scarcely left her room—but it was exactly what she would have wanted him to say of her.
Perhaps Noah wasn’t the very worst of brothers, after all.
The bulk of the correspondence continued in this manner. Jonathan’s letters were invariably wan, while Noah’s were oddly focused on his middle sister—the many friends she’d gone to stay with, dance floors she’d graced, suitors she’d rejected, and so forth—all fictitious, of course. Claire was touched to see how staunchly her brother had safeguarded her pride.
But the final exchange brought about a sea change. When she looked at Noah’s last letter, the date immediately caught her eye:
12th November 1819
Claire’s birthday. She remembered her family had marked the day with a dinner party including all of Monsieur Laurent’s best prawn dishes and all of Claire’s favorite people: her siblings, her Cainewood cousins…and, unexpectedly, Lord Milstead. Having paid a call that morning on his way through the neighborhood, he’d been only too delighted to join the family celebration.
The remainder of Noah’s letter proceeded as follows:
Caro amico,
Forgive the abrupt style of this message; I fear there isn’t time for pleasantries. I must own I have not been entirely candid with you. Though Claire bears up admirably, the truth is that she’s in a bad way. It’s not mine to divulge the particulars, but I believe she’s about to make a terrible mistake, and unfortunately I haven’t enough credit with her to prevent it. You, on the other hand, may yet hold some sway. If you care for her still, I beg you to come to us in all haste—although, even should you leave directly, I suppose the journey could hardly be completed before the new year. It may already be too late.
Though I do hope you’ll come, in the spirit of our long friendship, let me end with a word of caution?—
If you hurt my sister again, it will be out of my power to avoid meeting you at dawn.
Yours etc,
Greystone
Jonathan’s reply was a nearly illegible scrawl.
Rome, Italy
1st December 1819
* * *
My good man,
Count on me by Christmas.
Rathborne
“Still reading?”
Jumping in surprise, Claire looked up to find Jonathan before her. “I’ve just finished.”
