Page 69 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

“I don’t recall you engaging in correspondence with any other of your models.”

“I doubt that most of them could read or write.”

“A fair point,” Alex said. “One you’d do well to mark.”

Teddy glanced up sharply from examining the envelope. “Meaning?”

“Miss Hobhouse isn’t from the usual ranks. She’s a young lady, not a Parisienne prostitute.”

“As I’m aware.”

“Take care,” Alex said. “You may well be playing with fire.”

Teddy barely registered the warning. The instant his sister and brother-in-law left the room, he tore open Stella’s letter. She’d arranged it in a similar fashion to the one he’d sent her, with a small letter folded within the single sheet of an outer letter. The outer letter was addressed to Laura—a few brief and exceedingly polite lines. Teddy gave it the barest glance before turning his attention to the smaller letter within. Addressed to him, it was written in an entirely different tone.

24 January 1863

Dear Mr. Hayes,

Thank you for your letter. What a surprise it was to receive it. How did you discover the name of my village? I don’t recall having mentioned it to you.

Your stay at Greyfriar’s Abbey sounds to be a pleasant one with so many others in residence. I envy you the largeness of your extended family, even as I sympathize with your need for the solitude necessary to your work.

You mentioned Mr. Finchley. His name is not unknown to me. I met him, and his wife, briefly in London last year at the wedding of my dear friend Evelyn Maltravers to Mr. Ahmad Malik. Are you acquainted with Mr. Malik? Do you perchance know Evelyn? I scarcely imagined when we met that you and I would have London friends in common.

Here in Fostonbury, the vibrancy of town is a fond but distant memory. I have had no success in finding a suitable drawing master within fifteen miles, and my friends are too far away to easily visit. Locket is my only comfort. I have been galloping her every day, and fervently wish I might gallop away from this place. My brother has become engaged, you see. His intended joined us recently, along with her mother, and is staying indefinitely. I have had to give up my room for them. It is not a comfortable state of affairs.

It begins to seem impossible that I shall contrive to get away to London for Lady Anne’s wedding in the spring. I have threatened to travel there myself on the train, but my brother’s resolve is firm. He is rather unhappy with me at the moment, owing to a small scandal I have created with his betrothed, his future mother-in-law, and with one of my prospective suitors. I say “one of.” What I mean is, my only prospective suitor. You may draw your own conclusions as to the fellow’s desirability.

Suffice to say, I am in everyone’s black books at present. I have been on my best behavior, to no avail. My brother despairs of me, and his new family wishes me to perdition. Were convents still in use for burdensome female relatives, I have no doubt that I would be sent to one posthaste.

Aside from Locket, your sketch is the only thing that has lately given me any pleasure. I look at it a good deal more than I ought. My original impression of your abilities has only grown with time. I do believe that you will be famous one day. Selfishly, I hope that day will be sooner rather than later. I could then sell your sketch for a tidy sum and use the proceeds to secure my independence. Though, I confess, the idea of parting with it does not sit easily with me.

I wish I could see myself as you saw me those days in the small parlor, or that evening in the sleigh beneath the stars. It has vexed me greatly trying to remember what I said to you afterward. Something inane, I suspect. Your Parisienne muses are doubtless more articulate in such circumstances.

Enclosed is a letter for your sister. Please thank her for interceding so that you might write to me. It would be my honor to hear from her again.

In friendship,

Stella Hobhouse

Eighteen

Miss Stella Hobhouse

The Vicarage

Fostonbury, Derbyshire

2 February 1863

My dear Miss Hobhouse,

I am grieved to hear of your difficulties. Who is this mysterious suitor? A local man? A man of property? I will not waste ink on telling you what you already know. A lady like you should be admired and celebrated, in London or Paris, or some other vibrant place. You are not meant for a backwoods existence, the wife of a villager or farmer in the middle of nowhere. (No offense to Fostonbury.)

How did I discover the name of it, you ask? It was simple enough. I merely mentioned it to Tom Finchley. He is a man of infinite resources. I had only to state the names of Derbyshire and Hobhouse and he was able to do the rest within the space of a week.

That is the reason my first letter didn’t reach you sooner. Not for lack of interest, or because of any unwillingness on my part to nurture the connection we forged in Hampshire, but because, when I had you before me, I was too caught up in the turn of your countenance to think about asking for postal directions.