Page 17 of The Lost Letter: A Victorian Romance

“Ah, that explains it. Lucinda Cavendish says that no lady can resist a man in uniform, try as she might. And if the gentleman is a cavalry officer, so much the worse!”

Lady Harker finished her soup, laying her spoon down beside her empty bowl. Almost immediately two footmen entered the dining room. They removed the asparagus soup with vol-au-vents of chicken, lamb cutlets with cucumbers, and side dishes of spinach, broccoli, and stewed mushrooms.

Sylvia helped herself to a little of each, wondering how in the world she was going to resign herself to the simple fare that she dined on at the Dinwiddy’s after having enjoyed so much rich cuisine at Pershing Hall. She very much feared that when she returned to Cheapside she would experience once again the feelings of gloom and discontent which had so plagued her when she had first entered service two years before.

She was accustomed to it now, of course. But when she had arrived at the Dinwiddy’s, still dressed in black after the death of her father, the period of adjustment had been difficult indeed. The small attic bedroom to which the housekeeper, Mrs. Poole, had consigned her had been quite a shock after her luxurious rooms at Newell Park. So too had been the slice of cold mutton pie which had comprised her dinner that first evening. The Dinwiddy’s were very kind—she was the first to admit it—but that kindness did not extend to offering their governess the choice cuts of meat. And it certainly did not allow for housing her in one of their best bedrooms.

“Will you work on your embroidery again after dinner, Miss Stafford?” Lady Harker asked.

Sylvia dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “Yes, I think so. Unless you have something else you would like me to do?”

“No, no, I have promised a letter to Harker. It is really quite tedious. I do so loathe writing letters.” She raised her wine glass to her lips. “You will want to write to your friends as well. When you do, you must give your letters to me and I will have Craddock post them along with mine.”

“I am obliged to you, but it is not necessary.”

“Not necessary? Why ever not?”

“I have no one with whom I correspond anymore.”

Lady Harker’s eyes filled with sudden sympathy. “Oh, don’t you?”

Sylvia felt again that same twinge of sadness. This time, it was not so easy to dismiss. “It is of little matter,” she said, forcing another smile. “I much prefer to work at the embroidery frame while I can. If I am very industrious, I may even complete the pattern that you gave me before I return to London.”

This seemed to placate Lady Harker—and to distract her, too. She instantly went off into rhapsodies about the lovely pattern she had found in an issue of the Ladies’ Treasury several months before. By the time she paused to draw breath, she seemed to have forgotten Sylvia’s pathetic situation entirely.

Sylvia believed herself to have forgotten it, too. It was only later, after several hours spent in the drawing room, stitching in silence while Lady Harker attended to her correspondence, that she began to feel the full effects of her unhappiness. She excused herself to bed and, as she climbed the sweeping staircase, a single beeswax candle lighting her way, she remembered how it had felt to do the same at Newell Park.

Her shoulders slumped beneath the weight of her silk dinner dress. She was cold and tired. She wanted to go home. Not to Cheapside. Not to her attic room at the Dinwiddy’s. She wanted to go home. She wanted to wake up tomorrow in her familiar bed with its familiar rose silk hangings and discover that the last two years had all been nothing but a terrible dream. And as for Papa…

She swallowed back a sudden swell of tears.

Papa was gone forever.

She had no one but herself now.

Which was exactly why it would not do to indulge in an episode of hysterics, she told herself firmly. She dashed away a tear that trickled down her cheek, straightened her spine, and proceeded down the dark corridor to her room.

Too late she heard the creak of a floorboard and felt the subtle shift in the atmosphere that could only be caused by the presence of another person. She raised her candle higher. The flame flickered wildly. “Is someone there?”

Sebastian stepped out of the darkness.

Sylvia caught her breath. “Oh,” she whispered. “It’s you.”

He loomed over her, his black hair disheveled and his cravat untied. He did not look happy to see her. Indeed, he looked as grim and forbidding as ever. But in her present state of mind, he was the dearest sight in the whole world. Her heart gave a mad leap and, for several weighted seconds, it was all she could do not to fling herself into his arms and weep out all of her troubles against one of his broad shoulders.

“Are you lost, Miss Stafford?” he asked.

“No, my lord.”

“You have been standing here for some time.”

“Have I?” She lowered her candle, mortified to think that he had been observing her. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t realize—” She flushed. “I was woolgathering, I’m afraid.”

“Were you indeed.”

“Yes, I…I am on my way to bed,” she confessed. “But Lady Harker has not yet retired. She is in the drawing room if you are looking for her.”

“I am not looking for my sister.”