Page 38 of The Lost Letter: A Victorian Romance

Approximately six hours later, Sylvia stood on the empty train platform in Apsley Heath, her carpetbag clutched tight in her gloved hands. She was wearing the same dark gown she had worn on the journey down from London, the same mantle buttoned at her neck, and the same silk bonnet on her head, its ribbons tied snug beneath her chin in a plain, uncompromising bow.

It had been surprisingly easy to find someone willing to bring her to the station. She had simply gone down to the kitchens at dawn and enquired of the cook. Mrs. Croft was a motherly woman. A kind woman. One look at Sylvia’s swollen eyes and tearstained face and she had promptly summoned an old manservant from the stable yard.

“John,” she had said. “Best hitch up the dog-cart. Young miss here must catch the next train down at Apsley Heath.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he had replied.

The next thing Sylvia knew, she was seated behind the old manservant in a rickety little one-horse carriage hurtling toward the neighboring market town. He had asked her no questions, thank goodness, only speaking to her once to bid her safe journey at the train station. And then, with a tip of his cap, he had gone.

She was alone again.

Alone and bitterly disappointed with herself.

Last night, she had come within a hair’s breadth of falling into the same trap that countless women had fallen into before her. She had nearly allowed herself to be ruined. And not by some random rake or rogue preying on innocent governesses—though that would have been terrible enough—but by Sebastian Conrad. The very gentleman who had broken her heart three years before.

The worst part was, she could not even blame him for it. The whole encounter, from its very start, had been entirely her own fault.

What in the world had she thought would happen when she caressed his face and pressed kisses to his scars? She had practically thrown herself at him! Naturally he would react. She would wager that any woman—whether duchess or scullery maid—who had treated him thus would receive the same passionate response. Sebastian was merely a man, after all. And she had been a ready and willing woman. A woman in her nightgown! She could die of embarrassment.

She walked the length of the train platform and then back again, her fingers clenched so tightly on the handle of her carpetbag that her knuckles cramped beneath her gloves. The wind was high and chill gusts stirred the dirt and soot from the platform around the hem of her sensible skirts. But she hardly noticed the grime or the weather. Nor did she notice the smattering of people beginning to mill about—ticketholders, like herself, waiting to catch the early train to London. She was far too restless and overwrought.

“In the morning you and I are going to talk about a great many things,” Sebastian had said. “We are going to come to an arrangement.”

How confident he had been that she would become his mistress! As if she were so madly in love with him that she would be content to have him in any way she could get him. As if she would tolerate being exposed to scandal and degradation and all for…what? The dubious distinction of being the kept woman of an earl?

Come to an arrangement, indeed!

As it was, no one would ever know that she had been compromised during her ill-fated trip to Hertfordshire. But if she consented to an affair with Sebastian, she would risk not only her reputation, but her livelihood. The Dinwiddy’s would never permit a ruined woman to teach their young daughters. They would cast her out without a reference.

And what if she should fall pregnant?

Sylvia’s stomach roiled at the thought.

It would be shameful. She would be shunned by everyone she met. No decent person would have anything to do with her. Worst of all, she would be entirely dependent on Sebastian’s good will. He could cast her off whenever he chose. And with his volatile temper, who knew when that would be?

Yes, she told herself, the consequences of such a liaison would be dire indeed. That much she understood. What she could not understand was why, despite knowing how much she stood to lose in the bargain, she felt such an ache for Sebastian, such a terrible temptation to return to Pershing Hall and live with him however he would have her for however long as he would have her.

You are as reckless as Papa, she thought with disgust. To even consider throwing your life away for the sake of a few moments of excitement, a few moments of pleasure.

It had taken years to mend her heart when Sebastian had broken it the first time. Years to build a new life for herself. She could not put herself through it again. She would not. Because if she did, it would be worse. So much worse. Three years ago he had only courted her and chastely kissed her lips. Last night, he had crushed her to his chest in a fiercely possessive embrace. He had ravished her mouth with his. He had told her that he wanted her.

Heat flooded her face at the memory of it. She bent her head, shielding her blushes from view behind the protective brim of her bonnet.

A moment later, she was jolted from her self-recriminations by the roar of the approaching locomotive. She watched it chug into the station, a sense of numb resignation settling into her heart. It came to a stop alongside the platform with a screech of grinding metal. A handful of passengers disembarked. Sylvia waited with the other ticketholders while the porters unloaded their luggage. It did not take long. Apsley Heath was not a popular destination, especially at this time of day.

“All aboard!” the conductor cried.

She tightened her hold on her carpetbag and began to make her way to the second-class railway carriage. There was nothing else to be done, she thought miserably. Any future with Sebastian was impossible. And the revelations about their long ago letters to each other had not changed a thing. They were two different people now. From two different worlds. It was best if she returned to hers and resumed her life as a governess. It was the right thing to do. The safe thing to do.

When it was her turn to board, a porter stepped forward to take her elbow. She thanked him for his assistance and then, after one last, anguished look at the Hertfordshire landscape, she stepped onto the train that would take her back to London and out of Sebastian’s life forever.

As a result of staying up the better part of the night, Sebastian slept until midmorning. When he awoke, Milsom was already gone.

So was Sylvia Stafford.

“A maid went to her bedchamber at half past ten with a breakfast tray,” said Julia, “but her room was empty and all of her things were gone. I sent Craddock to enquire if anyone had seen her and—can you believe it!—she discovered that one of the grooms drove Miss Stafford to the train station in a dog-cart. At dawn!”

Sebastian had been sitting in front of his mahogany dressing table, attempting to knot his cravat when his sister burst into his room. It now hung loose round his neck, forgotten, as he listened to her in stunned silence.