Page 1 of The Lost Letter: A Victorian Romance

London, England

Spring, 1860

Sylvia Stafford smoothed out the skirts of her plain, dark gray gown as she followed her employer, Mrs. Dinwiddy, down the stairs. She was not strictly forbidden to receive callers; however, in her entire two years as governess to the Dinwiddy children, no friends or family had ever attempted to call upon her. Not that there were a great deal of either in her life at the moment. After her father’s suicide, the only family remaining had been a parcel of disapproving aunts and uncles. And any society friends she might have had in her role as Miss Stafford of Newell Park in Kent had all since long disappeared.

“I do not know a Lady Harker,” she said. “At least, I do not think I do. It is very possible we may have met once, long ago.”

“She was very insistent,” Mrs. Dinwiddy replied.

“You spoke with her, ma’am?”

“Oh yes. We had a nice little chat.” Mrs. Dinwiddy gave a chortle of laughter. “Imagine me! Chatting with a viscountess of all things! But she’s only a young lady and pleasant enough for all her finery. She put me quite at my ease.”

The Dinwiddy’s modest parlor, like the rest of their house in Cheapside, was both tasteful and comfortable. Sylvia entered it to find a smallish woman perched on the edge of an armless, button-back chair, her fashionably flounced skirts draped over a wire crinoline of truly magnificent proportions. She was young. Younger at least than Sylvia’s own five and twenty years. And she had a vaguely harried expression, complimented rather comically by a frothy lace and ribbon cap, pinned slightly askew, atop a profusion of blond curls.

She sprang from her seat, her large brown eyes immediately fixing on Sylvia. And then she smiled. “You are Miss Stafford?” She strode forward. “I recognized your hair! How lovely it is. And how lovely you are, too! I do thank you for bringing her so quickly, Mrs. Dinwiddy. Is it possible I might speak with her alone?”

Mrs. Dinwiddy was a kind employer and readily acceded to Lady Harker’s request, even volunteering to have tea sent in.

“I feel I should remember you, Lady Harker,” Sylvia said after her employer had withdrawn from the room, “but I fear I do not.”

Lady Harker’s smile faded. “No, indeed. We have never met, Miss Stafford. Oh, but I am so happy to have found you. You cannot know…”

Sylvia was alarmed to see tears starting in Lady Harker’s eyes. “My dear ma’am,” she said gently, “please have a seat. And pray take my handkerchief. Here. Do you see the little knots of blue and brown thread? It is one of the first efforts of Miss Dinwiddy at embroidery. They are meant to be flowers. She gave this handkerchief to me last Christmas. It was wrapped around a cake of my favorite violet scented soap.”

Once upon a time, Sylvia had been admired for her velvety voice. It was low and soft. Seductive, one ardent suitor had said. Indeed, there was seldom a London party during which, at some point, she had not been begged to sing. Now, however, her voice was an exceedingly practical attribute, used daily to soothe her young charges and nightly to read or sing them to sleep. It was also invaluable for calming the perpetually flustered cook, the worried housemaid, and anyone else whose nerves were out of balance.

It worked just as well on highly-strung aristocrats.

Distracted, Lady Harker sank into a chair, her attention focused on the collection of misshapen knots of thread that bordered the handkerchief. “Miss Dinwiddy is the child you teach here?”

Sylvia seated herself in the chair across from Lady Harker, her own full skirts settling about her in a moderate spill of serviceable gray wool. “Yes, ma’am. Miss Clara Dinwiddy is the eldest daughter of the house. She is eight now. I also teach her younger sister, Cora. Cora is six.”

“I had not thought to find you a governess,” Lady Harker said as she blotted her eyes.

Sylvia was not offended. If truth be told, she had not thought to find herself a governess either. She had expected to marry. There had even been a special gentleman once. A gentleman who had come far closer to winning her hand than any other suitor. But Papa’s suicide had changed everything. The family she had been staying with for the London season could not bustle her back to the country soon enough. And after that, she had never heard from any of her suitors again.

Not that any of that mattered now. Her tears had long since dried up and the part of her which had once dreamed impossible romantic dreams had withered and died. She was not unhappy now. Far from it. She laughed easily and often. She never thought of her old life anymore. Well, almost never.

“The Dinwiddys have been very good to me,” she said truthfully. “I count myself lucky to have found a position with them.”

Lady Harker flushed. “Oh, I did not mean to insult you! It is only that I expected you would be married with children of your own. Lady Medcalf told me that you had so many admirers before…” Her flush deepened. “But I must say, I am glad to find you unattached. More glad than I can say.”

Sylvia smiled. “Perhaps you had better tell me why you have come.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Lady Harker grew instantly solemn. “Well…you see, Miss Stafford…my elder brother is a very difficult man.”

Sylvia nodded with understanding, unperturbed by this non sequitur.

“He has always been difficult. So stern and grave. We were never very close. He is so much older than I am. But while he was away in India, my father and eldest brother died of fever. And now he is the only family I have left. Indeed, he is the head of the family, for he has the title now. Not that I must put up with his moods. My husband will not permit me to stay with my brother above a fortnight. He fears he may be violent. But he has never been violent with me, Miss Stafford. Well…” She twisted the handkerchief in her hands. “Perhaps he has thrown a book and once he did throw a porcelain figure, but he was not trying to hit me with them. He was only trying to scare me.”

Sylvia listened with calm attention. She had become used to hearing long nonsensical tales from her charges. She prided herself on her patience.

“He would not hurt a woman,” Lady Harker continued. “It is just these moods of his. He becomes so overwrought, you see. One night, last month, I thought I heard him calling out. I went to his room. Just to peep in at him. And he was sitting in his chair with his head in his hands and he was crying. I did not know what to do! I tried to comfort him, but he said I must get out or he would ring my neck.” She reddened. “That is when I first saw it. He had it clasped in one of his hands. He was holding it whilst he was weeping.”

Lady Harker took a breath. “Well, I thought I must have imagined it. The next day, I checked all round his room, but I could not find it. I was near giving up when it occurred to me that I should question his valet.” She beamed with obvious pride at this decision. “His valet, Milsom, was his batman during the uprising. He is ridiculously loyal to my brother. Naturally he refused to tell me anything. But I scolded him like a very fury. At last, he said that it was indeed a lock of hair. That my brother had carried it with him to India. As a talisman.”

The demeanor of gentle encouragement with which Sylvia had listened to Lady Harker’s story thus far noticeably slipped. “I am sorry, ma’am. Did you say a lock of hair?”