“Lord Wolfgang Latham, here at your brother’s invitation.”
She had such a mobile face. Every feature got into the business of beaming, even the ever-so-slightly-off-center tip of her nose. “Lord Wolfgang! I’ve heard so much about you. Shall I fetch my hat and take you to Julian? I warn you, it’s a bit of a walk.”
He jerked his chin toward the mess of linen and thread on the floor. “Tell me first—what the hell are you embroidering?”
“Oh!” She looked down at her hoop and collapsed with laughter. “Don’t tell Julian, but that’s his pillowcase. He won at whist last night and I’m taking my revenge.”
“With dead frogs.” He nodded. “As one does.”
“As one does,” she said gravely.
“Perhaps we ought to play our own game of whist?”
“Oh, we’re certainly going to play.” When her green eyes sparked, they lit something inside him. “I intend to beat you badly.”
But they had only one afternoon together before he got a letter from Stoke House informing him that John’s health had taken another turn and calling him home. Wolfgang found it harder than it should have been to leave, so on impulse, he stopped his carriage halfway down the gravel drive and crunched back to the house to scribble out a quick note:
My dear Lady Charlotte,
I must cut my visit short, but I deeply regret our missed game of whist. May I suggest a game of letters instead? If I write you and you write me back, I have a feeling both of us will win.
Lord Wolfgang
It was their first letter, and soon many more winged between Charlotte at Clare and Wolfgang at Stoke House, which was growing bleaker by the day. Each sheet of paper from her felt like a shout of laughter, and Wolfgang couldn’t bear to let his darkness touch it. He said nothing about the weakness in John’s legs, or the first time John fell, or the day the doctor brought the wheeled chair.
As the summer went on, her letters slowly became more revealing. Once he baited her by saying he didn’t see the purpose of silk when good old cotton or wool would do, only to get a pert essay back on the importance of Spitalfields silk to the nation. Of course, being Charlotte, she included a handkerchief of Spitalfields silk with an elaborate, looping border stitched in deep, inky blue. When he folded the handkerchief according to her instructions, it spelled out a secret message:Lord Wolfgang is a clothhead.
Even John had smiled at that one, and Wolfgang had sent his warmest letter yet in response.
My dearest Lady Charlotte,
I’m not a clothhead. I’m a Lady Charlotte head—I think so often of you that my hair’s gone curly. Though, I’m sad to report, I’m no better dressed than I was before.
You seem to believe that fashion is some sort of language, but try as I might, I can only read “functional” or “fussy” in the clothing I see. Although, now that I think of it, after nine hours in the mud at Waterloo, I did get rather misty when presented with a pair of reasonably dry stockings.
It’s a strange thing—I seem to have blacked out most of Waterloo, but I have a vivid memory of the stockings and also the peppermint twists I kept in my uniform to steady me after. I keep peppermints on me now, too, but they don’t taste nearly as sharp, and if I think of it too carefully it shames me—it seems wrong to feel most alive in the midst of misery. I wondered if anything would feel as electric again, until I went down to breakfast this morning and saw your letter.
Your handwriting on a sheet of paper and I lit up like a lightning storm.
Lord Wolfgang
It wasn’t long before Charlotte’s reply arrived, and Wolfgang grinned before he even read it, because she’d etched the outline of a peppermint twist into the plain red wax of the seal.
My dear Lord Wolfgang,
I’d recognize your handwriting from thirty paces—spiky, dark, pressed hard into the paper, and often rather blotchy. Is there a meaning behind the blotches? Are they a sign of deep feeling? Or a quick, impatient mind? Or are you simply lazy about sharpening your nibs? You’d be shocked how much time I spend, speculating.
I think you’re wrong about your understanding of fashion, by the way. A pair of stockings evoked a strong response in you—that’s how clothing speaks. Perhaps having warm, dry feet proved to you that the battle was over, and more effectively than words ever could? I’d wager the first time you wore Hussar blue made you feel more a soldier, just as I never felt more a young lady than in the gown I wore to be presented at Court.
Though it’s rather wretched that your uniform was designed to help you stride around, while my Court gown left me so trussed up that making my curtsey to the queen felt like a notable accomplishment. Perhaps I oughtn’t to tell you, but in a fit of rebellion, I embroidered a tiny skull and crossbones on the hem, simply to feel more myself.
Here’s another confession, and one that rather shocks me: I often dream up ideas for new gowns. Since I received your last letter, they’re all the color of peppermint.
Yours entirely,
Lady Charlotte
Wolfgang read that letter so many times the paper thinned to tissue, but it left him with a question. Damn it, what color waspeppermint? Was it green? A red-and-white stripe?
