Page 13 of The Lost Letter: A Victorian Romance

Julia’s bottom lip wobbled, but though she gave every appearance of being on the verge of a tearful display, Sebastian could not help but notice the stubborn set of her chin. It was a feature that was distinctly Conrad. “It is not interference,” she informed him, “if I have done it for your own good.”

Miss Craddock, Lady Harker’s personal maid, arrived at dawn with the altered riding costume draped over her arm. She was a stern woman of middle-years who brooked no nonsense and, before Sylvia could utter more than a cursory protest, she had assisted her into the dark blue habit, skillfully arranged her hair, and was pinning into place a very fashionable riding hat.

Sylvia was ashamed at how easily she fell back into the role of privileged, pampered young lady. Over and over again, she reminded herself that she was no longer a member of the society to which she had been born. That she was a governess of absolutely no consequence. A superior servant, as Sebastian had said so unkindly. She had no business sitting at a dressing table, allowing Craddock to brush her hair. And she had no right to don the stylish riding costume lent to her by Lady Harker.

She reminded herself how hard it had been to adjust to her new life in Cheapside after her father’s death. She had had to learn to be independent. To see to her own needs. There had been no one to help her dress or to arrange her hair at the Dinwiddy’s. No one to press her gowns or mend a torn hem. It was up to her to see that her clothing remained clean and in good order. And it was up to her to arrange her hair as quickly and efficiently as possible each morning before beginning lessons in the schoolroom.

She stood in front of the gilt framed looking glass, scarcely able to credit the transformation that Craddock had wrought in so short a time. She was taller than Lady Harker, as well as being slimmer in the waist and fuller in the bosom, but the skillful lady’s maid had managed to lengthen the voluminous skirts, take in the waist of the riding jacket, and somehow add an extra inch to the elaborately cuffed sleeves. Worn over a starched petticoat and muslin chemisette, the dark blue habit now fit her body as if it had been made for her.

If that were not enough to render her speechless, her hair—which she had grown so used to seeing in a simple chignon or coil of braids—was now prettily rolled into the confines of a fine, silk hair net. When combined with the little riding hat perched atop her head and the borrowed riding costume gracefully skimming the curves of her figure, she no longer bore any resemblance to Sylvia Stafford, governess. Instead, the image reflected back at her in the mirror was that of the glorious Miss Stafford of Newell Park. A lady that Sylvia did not know anymore. A stranger.

She frowned at her reflection.

“You’re unhappy with it, miss?” Craddock asked as she handed her a pair of Lady Harker’s worsted riding gloves.

“Not at all.” Sylvia made an effort to smile. “I like it very much. Indeed, I believe you have worked a minor miracle.”

“I’ve only done what milady bid me.”

“You have done it exceedingly well.” Sylvia tugged on her borrowed gloves. They were uncommonly snug. “Is Lady Harker waiting at the stables?”

“I expect so, miss.” Craddock collected her sewing basket. “Will you be needing anything else?”

“No. Thank you, Craddock.”

Craddock dropped a perfunctory curtsy and left the room. Sylvia wondered what the lady’s maid thought of her. The entire staff must know by now that she was a governess in a merchant’s household. And when it came to distinctions of rank and wealth, servants could be even more toplofty than their employers. How long would it be before the butler or the housekeeper made some subtle attempt to depress her pretensions?

As if she could have any pretensions after that disastrous meeting with Sebastian!

He had been distant and cold, making it abundantly clear that she was not of his class. Indeed, at times, she could almost have sworn that he hated her.

It puzzled her exceedingly. She knew she had been foolish. And he had a right to be wary of her after what she had done. But to hate her for it? She could not understand it.

Exiting her room, she made her way down the curving, marble staircase. Yesterday, she had been too tired and overwhelmed to appreciate her surroundings. Today, it was difficult to refrain from looking all about her.

She was no stranger to grand houses. Newell Park had often been called a Palladian jewel box and the Mainwaring’s familial estate in Devon could easily have doubled for a medieval castle. Pershing Hall, however, was something else altogether. It had the requisite paintings and pillars, of course, and the main hall itself was possessed of a truly spectacular domed ceiling. But it was a sprawling, illogical structure. Built in competing architectural styles, it appeared to Sylvia that every generation had added something new. A Tudor arch, Elizabethan chimneys, and Palladian columns. She could not even begin to fathom how many rooms it must have or how long it would take to walk from one end of the house to the other.

To think that Sebastian lived here, all alone except for his servants and the occasional visits from his sister! It was a sobering thought.

And yet, Sebastian Conrad had never been the sort of gentleman who enjoyed society. He had been quiet and aloof, his severe gaze hinting at disapproval as it drifted over the various gaieties of the season.

“I do not know why he bothers to come!” Penelope Mainwaring had complained once during a musical evening at Lord and Lady Lovejoy’s townhouse in Mayfair.

Sylvia had consented to sing two songs that night. Sebastian had been at the back of the room. She had felt his eyes on her throughout her brief performance. It was early in their courtship then—if it could even be called a courtship. She had not known quite what to make of him yet. But somehow, even then, his solemn, steady regard made the practiced flirtations of her other beaux seem childish and silly.

He had been so much more imposing than other gentlemen. So much more serious. He had not given her effusive compliments or made a show of teasing her. He had just been there. Formidable. Reliable. Trustworthy. And because he had not appeared to give his affections easily, she had valued his attention all the more.

Of course, that had only been at the beginning. Later, when she had spent more time with him, talked to him and got to know him, she had come to care for him deeply.

Not that any of that mattered anymore.

They were two different people now. Virtual strangers who were not even inclined to like each other very much.

She descended the final flight of stairs, so lost in her own thoughts that she did not see the servant bounding up the steps from below. He was carrying a can of hot water and an armful of folded towels. At the sight of her, he stopped short. Water sloshed over the edge of the wide spout and splashed onto the steps.

“Oh, I do beg your pardon!” she said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No indeed, miss. It was my own fault.”